As someone who uses chat-based GenAI on a daily basis, and pays for premium access, I’ve come to observe this:

AI is still not great at divergent decision-making. If you ask it to do something or ask for answers, it will choose the most logically obvious or established path, meaning it continues to reinforce more of what IS — status quo, even if that is unjust/biased / irrational systems.

It’s great at PARTS of divergent thinking:

1. Coming up with novel ideas — but often these novel ideas are completely ridiculous or not grounded in reality, hence hallucinations.
2. Understanding constraints.

But it’s not good at coming up with novel ideas within specific constraints without YOU, the human defining where and what are the constraints.

In short, if you use the movie Divergent as an analogy, AI could categorize people into Dauntless, Amity, and so on. It could tell you what new faction of humans should be created in an ideal world.

But it would not coherently tell you, given the current context of the dominant powers, human nature, and this moment in time and history, how to think and behave in ways that crosses these lines and builds bridges on all sides in order to disrupt and change the system — all while going undetected and avoiding punishment for not fitting into a box.

In short, it cannot solve our greatest human problems. If asked to evaluate and prioritize problems it would assess and pick between solving world hunger or racism on a cold, hard basis of whatever its logic deems most valuable based on available data.

In executing these solutions, AI would optimize around or manipulate whatever is in its way. And humans do this too, to some extent. Perhaps AI is just more honest about it.

But can AI flip the script and disrupt its own logic with concepts like forgiveness or love or alchemy or renewal or breakthrough?

Can AI make decisions towards hybrid solutions not based on only quantitative but qualitative evaluations of what is contextually appropriate?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Can it hold paradox and make wise tradeoffs and sacrifices?

Humans do this all the time. World-class athletes know they need a good night’s sleep to win the big game the next day. And yet against what might be deemed better judgement, pro golfer J.J. Spaun chose to spend the whole night caring for his sick daughter alongside his wife. Sleepless and disoriented, and off to a rough start, he went on to win the 2025 US Open with family as his driving inspirational force.

The Problem with Possibility

AI creates endless possibilities. That’s the problem with possibility. The same sharp blade in the hands of a thug that has the possibility to take life, in the hands of a skilled surgeon, can save life. Possibility is a double-edged sword.

Renewal and breakthrough and love and forgiveness also require creation of new possibilities, but they take a very specific direction — moving away from decay, death, stagnation, and towards generosity, contribution, and self-sacrifice. These are the values that those who have shaped and led human society have talked about, written about, and championed, even if imperfectly, for generations before.

And this may be the generation where public discussion around these values and principles is in sharper decline than ever.

The problem with surrendering our decision-making to AI is that it doesn’t operate from these principles. At the end of the day, a machine operates from efficiency, and many of these things are inefficient and unpractical before they start being efficient and valuable.

When A Machine Does Good

Can this change? Some believe so. Anthropic has its approach towards Constitutional AI, to model human values and teach the machine to think based on the principle of non-harm (from classical liberalism with parallels in Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, and Hinduism).

But modeling a value and operating from a value are different things. Making a decision based on lived human experience, on hard-earned wisdom gained only from losing people you’ve loved or seeing them hurt — that is something else altogether.

All spiritual traditions remind us of this: light and darkness live in each of us, and absolute perfection is not possible in this life, but striving TOWARDS it is what gives life meaning. A machine cannot strive. It can only optimize.

A machine can generate infinite possibilities. But can it choose the one that costs something? Can it sacrifice?

A machine can optimize towards success. But what is its drive for success inspired by? A human knows that true wealth is not just the number of zeroes in your bank account but who you come home to at the end of the night. And this is what spurs humans to invent new technologies, put their bodies into a metal cannister hurtling into outer space, and climb unchartered peaks.

So perhaps the question is this, in our quest for better, faster, smarter — what are we slowly handing away? And are we willing to sacrifice our souls in the process?

By Damian Graizevsky and Crystal Cha

Stable and strong, a provider and protector… yet also emotionally present for his children. This is the paradox of what today’s contemporary father is expected to be. Many fathers want to be equal partners in caregiving, but in reality, their daily roles may not have shifted as much as we assume.

Public discourse often frames fatherhood as moving from provider (financially and materially) to emotionally attuned caregiver. But our ongoing qualitative research with Malaysian fathers in senior corporate roles shows a more layered picture, one of adaptation and gradual evolution, rather than a complete metamorphosis.

Rather than discarding traditional ideals of masculinity, these men are adding layers of emotional connection and care to their roles as material and financial providers and protectors. Fatherhood today is not one-dimensional but nuanced. Men still hold on to their provider identity while bringing more empathy and emotional awareness into their relationships. It’s not a replacement of the provider model but an expansion of it, where old and new expectations blend, and sometimes even contradict.

By focusing on fathers’ real experiences, our research revealed how social expectations and personal values come together to shape masculinity in more complex ways, beyond the simple binary “traditional” or “progressive” labels. It is not either-or, but both-and.

The findings show that while fatherhood is evolving, much of it remains familiar. The “new father” isn’t replacing the old — he’s an extension of him.

Behind the Conversations: On Fatherhood, Leadership, and Modern Masculinity

Starting in mid-2025, we interviewed ten fathers working in Malaysia, aged 35–65, all senior corporate leaders. Using a qualitative thematic analysis, we explored how they define and experience fatherhood within their professional and cultural contexts.

Though small, the sample offers rich insights. These fathers work at the top of environments that reward control, long hours, and constant performance. Their influence extends across their organizations, shaping culture and priorities. Their stories show how modern fatherhood is a continual balance between being present and being the financial provider, and between evolving ideals and the social expectations that still define a “good man.”

Because the study focuses on senior corporate leaders, it’s worth nothing their views are shaped by privilege, workplace culture, and social class. Fatherhood may look very different for men in less resourced or more informal settings.

Men As Providers: Why Can’t We Shed this Archetype?

Across all the interviews, the provider identity (as the main breadwinner) remained central to how men construct and experience fatherhood. For many participants, breadwinning was described as the bedrock of masculine identity, with fathers positioning themselves as the “rock” of the household, ultimately responsible for stability, security, and the family’s well-being.

“The men in the household are the owners,” one father said. “They are the providers. Their job is to provide for their family.”

For another, financial and physical provision was inseparable from love:

“My job is to make sure they’re safe, secure, and supported. That’s how I show care.”

These voices show that financial provision is more than a duty. It’s a moral expectation and a cultural marker of responsibility, shaping how fathers see their worth. This reflects what Raewyn Connell calls hegemonic masculinity — manhood tied to control, stability, and breadwinning. While some argue the breadwinner ideal is fading (Dermott, 2008; Elliott, 2016; Miller, 2011), the fathers in this study suggest otherwise. For them, providing remains central to what it means to be a father.

Even when fathers discussed caregiving and becoming more emotionally engaged, these behaviors were layered onto, rather than displacing, the provider identity. It was clear that being engaged with the family was highly conditional on being able to provide:

“I can only relax and be fully present when I know everything is taken care of.”

In other words, emotional availability and responsiveness begin only after financial or material security is assured. This layering establishes a subtle hierarchy of responsibilities: providing is framed as the primary masculine duty, while caregiving occupies a secondary, conditional position.

Yet this persistence of the provider ideal invites deeper questions: How much of this identity is self-driven, and how much is shaped by social expectations? Several fathers implied that the pressure to provide did not come from them alone.

Their partners often reinforce it and look to them to ensure material stability, seeing financial security as the foundation that allows the rest of family life to function.

“My role is more to get the money… I’m more in the supporting role [when it comes to caregiving].”

In Malaysia, these layers of fatherhood may be shaped as much by structure as by choice (For more on this topic, please read this article). Long working hours, rigid corporate cultures, and limited paternity leave can make caregiving feel like a privilege instead of a norm. Even fathers who want to share the daily grind of caretaking may find themselves constrained by systems that still define men as providers first.

We can’t assume, then, that the persistence of this mindset among men is due to their resistance to change. This role is reinforced externally, in two separate arenas: 1) Society and the workplace continue to reward men who prioritize their career, and 2) many partners still rely on them to secure the household’s material needs. These two forces, one public, one intimate, work together to keep the breadwinner identity firmly in place.

There is a psychological side to this too. For some men, being the provider is tied to their sense of competence and self-worth, offering them emotional stability and social validation. For others, it meets relationship expectations and keeps peace in households that still follow traditional divisions of labor.

Showing Up Counts, But Who’s Doing the Daily Work?

One of the most revealing findings from our research is that when providing remains the foundation of masculine identity, fathers tend to focus on visible, high-impact contributions, such as showing up for the big competition at school, rather than daily, hands-on caregiving or the daily shuttling of the kids to sports practices or tuition.

Almost every father interviewed mentioned their involvement with their children was primarily centered around symbolic moments: the school performance, the sports day, or the family outing. These are the occasions that feel like fatherhood, where presence is visible, appreciated, and emotionally rewarding.

“If it’s something important, I try to be there. I don’t have too much time to spend with them, never had, but when I do, we do something proper. We do things together where we can really bond.”

These moments matter and create lasting core memories, and fathers are sincere in their efforts to show up for the “big days.” But beneath these “highlight reel” moments sit a quieter pattern: the repetitive and often invisible work of bedtime, discipline, emotional regulation, cooking, and coordination still falls mostly to mothers. Fathers tend to participate in visible bursts, not in the steady routines of daily caregiving.

The paradox is clear. Many fathers express egalitarian ideals and value emotional connection, yet daily life still follows traditional divisions of labor. Even when fathers want to do more, work demands and relationship dynamics often mean their partners carry most of the emotional and logistical load.

This means that the emerging ideal of shared parenting responsibilities continues to co-exist with the reality of gendered care. “Quality time” or “presence with purpose” mirrors workplace logic, which is efficient, focused, and outcome driven. It helps fathers feel engaged without necessarily shifting deeper patterns, offering a modern image of involvement that doesn’t always change entrenched norms.

One father recalled:

“My father was the hardest worker I know. But he also tried to encourage me and be at the big game.”

The push and pull between work and emotional presence shapes masculinity today. Fathers aren’t rejecting the old model, but refining it to seem more involved and aware. Yet as we acknowledge this important progress, it’s important to be mindful that the deeper emotional work still falls mostly to women. A father’s presence, though sincere, is often symbolic more than shared, showing how the image of modern fatherhood has changed faster than the daily reality.

For fatherhood to change in practice, both forces need attention: workplace systems that cast men as financial providers first, and the expectations at home that place earning on fathers and daily caregiving on mothers.

The real question this research raises is a confronting one: Do we have the courage, or even the desire, to redesign these systems? If we continue accepting the quiet comforts of inequality and the myths of what makes a “good man,” shared care will remain out of reach for most fathers, and any progress made will be more symbolic than real, a reminder of how hard it is to rewrite the stories we tell ourselves.

Author: Damian Graizevsky, Founder of Boys2Men & Positive Masculinity Project and Crystal Cha, Assistant Director, Client Services, Asia School of Business

Acknowledgement: Our sincere thanks to our team member, Prof. Yi-Ren Wang, for her academic supervision and intellectual contribution to the research study on this topic and her valuable feedback on this article.

Two years before the pandemic, I led a global team of six from various locations — Romania, Singapore, Portugal, and Nigeria — while being based in Helsinki.

Some of the upsides of this setup included being able to work from home on wet and cold winter days when the thought of going outside seemed unbearable. It also was great for productivity, because you had no colleagues stopping by your desk for a quick chat.

At the same time, it also posed challenges like navigating time zones and building relationships without face-to-face interaction.

In early 2020, I returned to Kuala Lumpur, thinking I’d take a break from remote work, but Covid led to me working remotely for over two more years.

Despite initially missing in-person interactions, I adapted, and even took advantage of the flexibility to go on budget getaways and staycations. When my company restructured and personal circumstances arose, I decided to take the plunge and become a full-time digital nomad, working remotely for a NYC-based firm, URBN Playground.

Along the way, I learnt a few valuable lessons that have shaped me as a person. If you’ve ever felt the urge to seek flexibility beyond the traditional 9 to 5 work schedule, then here are a few crucial mindsets that have helped me on this journey:

Lesson #1 — Fortune favors the bold

Many digital nomads run their own online business, work as a third-party vendor for tax reasons, or combine these with other side incomes. There are fewer digital nomads who are full-time local employees with the freedom to work from anywhere.

Becoming a digital nomad is less about finding a job opportunity and more about deciding if this lifestyle suits you, then creating opportunities to make it happen. In my case, it happened quite naturally.

When I became a nomad, I’d been freelancing for over five years and was used to managing my cash flow, time, and clients. I began freelancing to support myself during a two-year MBA, and as word-of-mouth referrals kept coming, I continued it as a side gig. In addition, my previous experiences working with remote colleagues taught me how to work independently across different time zones.

By the time I transitioned into full-time nomadic life, I was already accustomed to working solo and being available round the clock. Through effective time and calendar management, I still found time for regular gym workouts and seven hours of sleep each night.

Initially, the role I landed wasn’t advertised as a remote one. I negotiated for it and made it work, because trust had already been built. I had a five-year history with the organization, who used to be one of my freelance clients. To simplify things for everyone, I negotiated for a competitive salary as a third-party vendor, and handled my own health insurance, retirement funds, and taxes independently. So, while I practically work as an in-house team member from Monday to Friday, on paper, I operate as a solo entrepreneur running my own business.

All of these were conscious choices, combining my experience with my vision for the lifestyle I wanted. I didn’t join a ton of networking events or scouring hundreds of job boards. The key takeaway, as simple as it may sound, is that to become a digital nomad, you just need to start somewhere.

Many people hesitate due to two common fears:

1. Do I have what it takes to succeed outside my comfort zone?
2. Can I make enough money to sustain my lifestyle (and/or my family)?

This brings me to my second lesson…

Lesson #2 — Life is a game of tradeoffs

There are many parts of digital nomad life that aren’t glamorous. If you’re worried about being stuck in your comfort zone in a dead-end yet safe job, well, many remote workers get stuck in their comfort zones of working in pajamas and not leaving the house for days in a row — which is never a great thing for your physical health, mental health, or productivity.

Moving from cafe to cafe to work and sitting in hard, uncomfortable, non-ergonomic chairs is not fun either. Nor is dealing with unexpectedly slow WiFi when you’ve commuted all the way to a new spot to work.

And you better get good at budgeting and managing your cash flow, in case a client decides to pay you late or business isn’t doing so well that month.

But on the flip side, you get to enjoy the tranquility of visiting places at off peak hours while everyone else is chained to their desks. You have the flexibility to pick up your kids from school and have quality time with them, rather than rushing back to the office. If you work late into the night to complete a project, you can take a recovery nap the next afternoon right in your own bed, just a few steps away.

Life is all about these tradeoffs.

Every yes to something is a no to something else.

Want more flexibility? You’re going to have to be comfortable with more risk and uncertainty. If you want more control and stability, well, you’re going to have to give up some freedom in return.

When you know what your priorities and values are, it’s easier to know what you’ll be willing to give up. Nothing worth having comes without sacrificing some other things. It could even be as simple as sacrificing having regular lunch buddies.

For me, I know my on-the-go lifestyle means I will not have a regular group of co-workers I can see and socialize with on a daily basis. I’m okay with that, because in a busy, hectic office environment, most lunch conversations are rushed, stressed, and filled with empty small talk anyway — at least in my experience.

In my view, the quality of friendships trumps quantity. I intentionally curate and select the friends I choose to invest in and keep in touch with — often through text and calls. When we do meet, I try to combine social outings with activities I already want to do, like working out or trying new restaurants together.

Once you know what you value most, and what you’re willing to give up, then it’s about figuring out when to take the leap.

Lesson #3 — Figure out what your tipping point is

Many people have the skills to become a digital nomad. Yet not everyone will become one. Leaving a secure job isn’t just about skills and experience; it’s about having the mindset and confidence to break free from the conventional beliefs about work we’ve been programmed with.

If you already know that the path less taken is the path for you, then it’s about figuring out when to make that leap.

Before taking the leap, I spent a decade in full-time employment to save what I felt was “enough” of a safety net. I recognized that the world is evolving, with the gig economy expanding and job contracts becoming less permanent. Even office jobs may not be as stable as they once were in the near future. So, why endure office hierarchies and politics when I can create my own safety nets?

“Enough” will look different for everyone.

Of course, personal finance experts suggest guidelines like saving 3 or 6 months’ worth of salary for rainy days. However, the amount that makes you feel financially secure before taking the leap is unique to your level of psychological comfort.

This will be influenced by things like the level of financial security you were brought up with, how many dependents you have, your fixed expenses, and your current lifestyle. By the way, the easiest thing to adjust on that list is your lifestyle. Personally, I maintained a consistent spending pattern over the years, avoiding “lifestyle creep,” which allowed me to save more over time.

Many people have broken free from the grind by working day jobs and slowly building up a freelancing portfolio, side hustle, or online business. They wake up a little earlier or work on their projects at night. Then, when the time is right, they make the leap.

When you can identify what that threshold or number is for you, you’ll have a clearer estimation of when you can make that leap. When I earned more in my first month of freelancing than in my previous full-time job, I immediately gained the confidence and thought, “Hey, maybe I can sustain myself without a full-time job.”

Breaking through that mental barrier and fear is really the biggest step to get started. Once your mind catches even a glimmer of possibility, it will start working to help you figure out what next steps you have to take to get there.

Lesson #4 — Find your community

After earning more as a freelancer while doing my MBA compared to my previous job, I returned to regular employment when I graduated. Why? Honestly, I got caught up in the excitement of machine learning and AI. I was afraid of losing touch with the industry, fearing my skills would become outdated if I didn’t return to the job market. I also feared stagnation. I had reached my capacity for clients, but was hesitant to hire help because I didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s salary. However, without scaling, my income wouldn’t grow. So, I reentered the job market and moved to Helsinki.

During the first three months of my full-time digital nomad journey, I had many doubts. I questioned if I had made the right decision, especially as my MBA peers and juniors got promoted into fancy departmental head and country/regional-level roles. In the first six months of my new job, I continued to keep job alerts coming into my inbox, uncertain if this was the right thing for me.

It’s only when I started spending more time with digital nomads, entrepreneurs, and business owners, that I began to truly believe that this could be a sustainable way of working. I started to see new possibilities, like working with freelancers on specific projects or teaming up with other solopreneurs to grow without the need to hire employees.

I saw people my age and younger launching things without having everything ready behind the scenes, and I saw what the process of creating something out of nothing looks like. And I realized something:

It doesn’t take a genius to create.

It simply takes someone who is thoughtful, committed, and brave enough to start.

I started to be more curious and braver about experimenting, even without a clear roadmap. Instead of just focusing on content marketing, I accepted a gig to conduct a full day marketing training course for a large FMCG company. I also launched my coaching side business even before I’d finished my coaching certification, and set up a website and payment portal in one day to take on my first client, who was referred by a friend.

The people you surround yourself with are crucial in helping you stay on your chosen path when things get tough, whether it’s digital nomading, getting fit, or eating better. I wouldn’t be where I am today without all the people I’ve met on this journey.

Lesson #5 — Discipline equals freedom

In my twenties, my dreams of a flexible, well-paying job were driven by wanderlust and spontaneity. However, I’m not sure if perpetual travel would have aligned with my bigger priorities of home and family.

Now, in my thirties, being a digital nomad means more than just YOLO adventures — it’s about experiencing a greater sense of freedom. Initially, the primary focus was financial freedom. Eventually, the definition of freedom expanded to encompass physical health, time, and energy freedom — it’s all about not being trapped or limited by any of those things.

So how does discipline and even rigidity help me find more ease, flow, and freedom?

Well, by saying “no” to what drains my resources, I get to say “yes” to better things.

When my alarm rings in the morning, I can say “no” to getting out of bed. At the same time, I’m saying “yes” to a day where the tone I’ve set is rushed and stressful.

Or, I can say “no” to sleeping in, and start my morning in the right frame of mind to take on the rest of the day.

I get to choose.

I don’t want my poor money habits to limit what I can spend on when I go on a vacation.

I don’t want a lack of physical fitness or poor nutrition to limit my mobility and day-to-day activity, whether it’s carrying grocery bags or carrying a baby.

I don’t want a lack of planning and scheduling in buffer time to impact how much time I have to do the things that matter most. For me, this includes time for passion pursuits, rest and recovery, learning, and spending time with people I love.

I don’t want to be good at managing all the above things — yet still feel drained because I’m not managing my mental space or nourishing my spirit and soul. In other words…

I don’t want to limit my life by getting in my own way.

I follow a strict calendar schedule, even blocking time for naps and unplanned leisure. I joined a 3-month program that promised to give me “a new relationship with time”.

Financially, I prioritized playing defense (savings) before offense (investments). Sounds boring, but it brought me much-needed peace of mind.

After a decade of struggling with fitness and diet on my own, I hired a personal trainer, signed up for a nutritional program, and created workout groups with friends to build lasting healthy habits. I track and log my progress so I can see where I need to improve.

Finally, my top priority is managing mental energy and nurturing my well-being. I seek support from coaches and counselors, use a habit tracking app to remind myself to pray, and stay accountable to my partner. This foundation is what gives me the energy to sustain my commitment to everything else.

Most people are looking for a magic pill or hack, but getting better at anything is really just getting the basics right. Most people can’t even get the basics right, and want a secret formula. Anything else out there just gives you an incremental edge. If you’re not seeing results, look at your foundation. Look at what you’re doing consistently, day in and day out. Success really is a series of small wins that add up over time.

Ready to break free from the 9 to 5?

To sum it up — there is no magic formula to escaping the Dilbert life and becoming the author of your own career journey.

But if you want to build a life that aligns with your values and priorities, that nurtures and sustains the truest parts of who you are, then maybe, just maybe, becoming a digital nomad could work for you.

How I Accidentally Became A Digital Nomad (And What I Learned Along the Way) was originally published in The Startup on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This is a reflection on fostering rescue cats. But it’s also a reflection on loving and letting go of anything we come to hold dear.

Fostering rescue cats has been one of the funnest and most life-changing experiences I’ve had. Throughout the pandemic, my foster cats became my lifeline. They gave my days structure and meaning, and taught me so much about life. These are a few of the things they taught me about loving and letting go:

Our ability to commit is limited by our life circumstances

Most of us get into fostering because we really want a pet, but physical circumstances simply don’t allow us to commit to giving a pet a forever home. We understand that wanting something is not the same as being ready for it. Our capacity to commit might change in the future, but in the meantime, the best we can do is provide a pet with a temporary shelter.

We know this is temporary, but we fall in love anyway

We know that our foster babies might be with us for a few weeks or a few months, and we know this will not be forever — but we get attached anyway. Just when we think we’ve found our ‘favorite’, a new cat comes into our lives — and we fall in love all over again. Each one brings something completely different to the table, has such a unique personality, and is annoying and endearing in its own special way. Each one teaches us something new.

Our hearts expand as we go along

No matter how many new cats come into our lives, each one that came before continues to remain in our memory for the special dent they made on our hearts. We’ll always remember the first one we bottle fed. The first successfully integrated pair that became soulmates and got adopted out together. The one that always destroyed the toilet paper. The one that could sit for hours looking out the window chirping at birds. The more experiences we go through, the more we realize our ability to understand and catalog these experiences grows. We learn our hearts have the capacity to expand and make room for all these memories.

We occasionally harbor thoughts of forever

There are definitely many points in a foster parents’ journey where we think to ourselves, Maybe, just maybe, I can keep this one. Sometimes, we manage to make it work and the story ends happily for everyone when a “foster fail” happens on occasion. But most of the time, we know that while forever is a nice idea, it would not be fair to the rescued cat if we were not able to commit to keeping them healthy and happy for the rest of their lives.

Letting go is not loving them less, but wanting the best for them

Adoption days are bittersweet — on one hand, we’re saying goodbye to a cat that has become a part of our daily lives. We’ve become accustomed to their habits, quirks, and the way they make us feel when they rub their heads against us or look up at us with large, pearly, questioning eyes.

On the other hand, we understand that this is also one of the most important days of their lives — the day they found someone who wants to give them a forever home. Someone who will be able to give them a life that’s significantly more enhanced than what you can give them at this very moment in time. And so even in the sadness of saying goodbye, there’s a part of us that’s thrilled for their next chapter.

We continue to miss them, and they continue to miss us

Even though we know they’re in a better environment, we continue to miss them. And they miss us too. If they hear our voice on a video or a phone call, they will start to look for us. If we ever swing by for a visit, they will remember us. And every time we flick through photos on our phone and come across an old photo of them, all the memories of them will come rushing back in an instant.

We continue to love from afar

One of the highlights of being a foster parent is when our foster babies’ parents allow us to follow along on their journey through social media. Seeing the cats you once cared for growing bigger, chonkier, and happily playing on someone else’s social media feed is a different kind of love — it’s a love where you realize that you played an important role in socializing them, making them more adoptable — but where you also understand that to continue loving them, you have to let them graduate to the next chapter of their lives. So you make peace with loving them from a distance, knowing they’re well-loved and well-fed and happy.

In an ideal world, every stray animal will find a forever home from the time they are rescued. But that is very rarely the case. And although moving cats between foster homes and to their forever homes puts them through a lot of stress, giving them a temporary home can also be a very kind thing to do. It helps them unlearn some of their bad habits they picked up from the past traumas of living on the streets. A foster home is a kind of “halfway house” where rescue cats can learn how to settle into the comfortable stability of being an indoor cat — where they learn that they are safe, and they are loved, and their truest, quirkiest, weirdest personalities can come out.

This is a reflection about fostering rescue cats.

But it’s also a reflection about loving and letting go.

In an ideal world, the first person we fall in love with will be the person we spend forever with. But this is very rarely the case. And although relationship endings are always difficult, and new chapters are always bittersweet, some relationships shape and define us more than others. These are the ones in which we found a temporary home and shelter from the storms of life, where maybe for the first time in our lives, we learnt what it felt like to be able to be ourselves, and to be treated with care. Ones where we unlearn some of our bad habits, that prepare us to adjust better to something more lasting and long-term.

In these relationships, letting someone go is the kindest thing we can do, knowing that life holds things for them that we cannot give them. Letting them go doesn’t take away from the memories shared or the love exchanged. It will never erase the dents made on your heart. But with time and understanding, letting go teaches us that love can take many shapes and forms. We begin to form a richer, deeper understanding of love — a love that doesn’t force us to exhaust ourselves trying to hold on to it, but adapts, changes form, evolves — and continues to exist.

This is a kind of love we so rarely see being talked about — but it’s one we should be deeply grateful for. Every person who allowed us to make a temporary home in their hearts did something kind for us, and played an irreplaceable part in helping us become the people we are today.

What being a foster cat mom taught me about loving and letting go was originally published in The Shadow on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When a relationship ends, people tend to see it as a failure.

In some cases, that’s simply not true. All relationships are opportunities for growth, and in some of them, we do that more brilliantly than in others.

Perhaps the success of a relationship lies not in how long it lasted, but in the person you became in it. Did you become kinder, more thoughtful, more able to see a different perspective? Did it slow you down as you were speeding through life, or did it give you a kick in the butt when you were too comfortable for too long?

Did you learn to speak up more — or to hold your peace? Did you do things you never thought you’d find yourself doing, like planning ahead — or just going with the flow? Did you learn to make decisions quicker or to spend more time slow thinking? Did you change your mind about some things? Try new things? Reconnect with old things? Did you do and say things the “old you” wouldn’t have? Did you work harder, create more art, write more, make a big decision, wake up earlier, move forward in your career, try new food, drink more water, work out more, take more naps, or decide to be kinder to yourself when this person was around? Did you rethink who you really are and what you truly value?

Perhaps if the answer to any of these questions is yes, then even if it ended, it was a successful relationship.

Love is not a fairytale

Recently, I’ve had the privilege of that kind of relationship. The kind where it felt like we packed YEARS of life and memories and laughter and tears into months. Where it felt like being 18 all over again. The kind where hours of conversation and sitting in silence together felt effortless. Where nights blended into mornings and favorite songs blended into a shared playlist and limbs blended into each other in a way that felt like home. Where love was found in the small kindnesses — making coffee for someone in the morning and holding them when they’re sick.

The kind of relationship where the odds were stacked against us and saner people would have held back — and yet the vision we saw, even if only for a brief moment, was enough to dive in headfirst without hesitation. Where we annoyed the hell out of each other — and weren’t afraid to tell each other that. Where we were able to call each other’s BS out — and remind each other of all the ways we were amazing. Where we spoke our truths, even if there was multiple versions of it, and said what needed to be said, even if it was difficult.

The kind of relationship where you’re stripped so bare in the presence of another person that at times, it brings out the worst sides of you — and at other times, the softest version of you.

It was a relationship in which for the first time, I understood that growing up is holding space for conflicting ideas. Being in love with romantic ideas of love is not the same as loving another person in their imperfections while dealing with your own imperfections.

Sometimes, the idea of wanting what is best for yourself and at the same time, wanting so badly what is best for the other person, can be two ideas that aren’t meant to fit together at this point in time — maybe not yet, and maybe not even in this lifetime. And it’s letting go, not because you don’t care enough, but because you care too much.

Because letting go is releasing the fantasy of the fairytale, where love is something that falls from the sky and happily-ever-after is a single point in time, and finding something better instead—truth. It’s realizing you can’t pour from an empty cup, and you can’t fully choose another if you don’t choose yourself first. And for perhaps the first time in your life, you choose yourself first, trusting the other person is choosing the same too. You realize that you can’t fully love someone if you don’t truly allow yourself to experience love, and you surrender to the journey of understanding what that experience really means.

All that we love deeply becomes a part of us

Maybe, in these kinds of relationships, even when they end, they never really end. The way they treated you set a new bar for how you deserve to be treated — and how you should treat yourself. The lessons they’ve taught you and the marks they’ve left on your heart stay, like a scar. And sometimes scars are signs of people who hurt us. But sometimes, they’re signs of people who healed us. Who, knowingly or not, performed open heart surgery on us even when we didn’t know we needed it, and left us never the same again. Better. Kinder. Wiser. Softer. Stronger. Surer. More wholehearted.

Clearer about the values we stand for. And braver about pursuing our dreams and destinies and never settling for less.

People who taught us that instead of trying to control love and each other’s timelines, the best thing we can do for each other is to let each other be who they are, unapologetically. To stop grasping so tightly to the other as a way to meet our own unresolved needs, but to start, in the words of author Donald Miller, “holding each other closely as [we] experience them.”

These are the people who hold up a mirror for us so we can see our potential — and all the work we have left to do to achieve it. Who teach us that perhaps the best form of love is the freedom to continue evolving and becoming the best versions of ourselves, even if that means our paths may diverge in the process.

You begin to find that kind of love all around you — in the friends who have always been there for you, in a hobby that has made you a better person, or in a pet who loves you unconditionally. You start to see your parents in a new light and appreciate things about how they raised you that you couldn’t see before. And most importantly, you learn to find that kind of love and acceptance within yourself.

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” — Helen Keller

Love is an experience to appreciate, not a project to control

I’ve learnt that sharing life with another person is a privilege and an adventure, and it is also a risk. There are no guarantees, and it can be unpredictable, just like the weather. The forecast might look sunny, but that’s the thing with forecasts — they’re never 100% accurate. Just when you’re least expecting it, you hear a thunderclap and in seconds, the skies open up.

The best thing we can do with the weather is to enjoy it as it comes — the bright, sunny, roadtrip-worthy days, and the grey, drizzly snuggle-up-together-in-bed days. The skies don’t clear on command and raindrops don’t fall to the earth on a wish. But that doesn’t have to stop us from finding ways to enjoy each moment or from running in the rain. Because when you take the time to be fully present in the moment, time is immaterial.

In the words of a wise man:

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” — Henry Van Dyke

Real love doesn’t settle or conform — it transforms, it expands, and it invites you into a bigger story. A story where you learn to trust, in the depths of your heart, that even in the greyest of days, darkest of nights or harshest of winters, the sun will always shine again and the flowers will always bloom again. You learn that everything you ever needed to be complete was already within you, not waiting to be found in another person.

In losing someone, sometimes we find ourselves afresh.

With these kinds of endings, what you thought had died was in fact being planted. The rain that washes away what is made of nothing but dust is the same rain that nourishes seeds so tiny they can barely be seen by the naked eye.

Sometimes, the old version of you needs to be buried before a new version can flourish. One chapter needs to end before a new one can begin. And in this new chapter, you find your connection to a bigger picture, and you learn to believe again.

“If what one finds is made of pure matter, it will never spoil. And one can always come back. If what you had found was only a moment of light, like the explosion of the star, you would find nothing on your return.” — Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)

As a child, I loved games. Arcade games, DOS games, 8-bit TV video games, which then upgraded to more modern PC games that required a CD for installation. Since my brothers and I had good parents, our screen time was limited, of course, and every minute spent gaming was precious.

I’ve long seen games as an analogy for life. We’re all on a journey, trying to get to the next level, with obstacles and enemies of all kinds that we have to overcome. Some of them we can anticipate and easily vanquish. Others come out of the blue, leaving us blindsided and caught off guard. Sometimes, we recover from taking a hit and are able to continue on to the next level.

Other times, taking one too many hits requires starting all over again — from the beginning. Having lived through a little over three decades of life, I’ve realized there’s quite a lot I don’t know and a lot more I have to learn. But I have learnt a few things. I’ve learnt that starting all over again is not a bad thing. Sure, it can feel crippling and frustrating at first. As a kid, when I “died” and had to restart the game, I’d get so furious I would slam the keyboard in frustration.

It felt a little like that when I got divorced. I took out a chunk of my savings to pay for the divorce — two years after I’d pretty much spent all of my savings from the first four years of my career on the wedding. But it wasn’t just starting all over again financially. I’d met my ex-husband through church, and most of our social life and weekends revolved around acquaintances from the church. Getting divorced forced me to reevaluate and reestablish my social connections as well. Even post-divorce, dating and going through breakups after being in a serious, committed relationship still feels, for a period of time, like I will never find love again.

Starting over education-wise felt similar. When I got conditionally admitted to an MBA program in 2016, having little more than an 11th grade background in math, there were moments I thought I would not pass the mandatory math prep. My ability to cram was no longer what it was at 18. When it came down to the wire, I did eventually fail one of the subjects, but the margin of failure was small enough that I was given the chance to retake the test — and the second time around, I passed.

But, just like in video games, if you keep at it each time you start again, you’ll realize you’ve gained a few more skills each time around. Even if the only skill you’ve gained is familiarity, and the confidence that comes with knowing the terrain. Knowing that even if you fail, you will survive and get the chance to try again. Maybe that confidence makes you try a few new moves and maneuvers you wouldn’t have had the courage to try before. And each time, usually, you get a little bit further than you did the last time. Each round you play, it’s practice, and the more you practice, the better you get at it.

I certainly see my relationships that way. It’s easy to dismiss it as a string of wrong choices and conclude that I simply haven’t met ‘the One’. But I know that great relationships take more than chemistry — they also take skill and effort. And if I were to look back at every single relationship I’ve been in, I can honestly say that the quality of them have gotten better over time. Sure, it may not have been ‘forever’ — but with each person, I’ve had deeper, more honest conversations, faced more of my demons, walked beside another person as they faced some of theirs, and journeyed with that person as we figured out what we wanted in life. It has been the case in the relationships I’ve been in, so far, that eventually what we wanted in life took us our separate ways. That does not in any way diminish the skills we both acquired through sharing a chapter of our lives together — skills that can only be learnt through experience and practice.

I certainly see my career that way too. On one hand, I am aware the world is changing and careers are no longer linear and in fact, multiple concurrent careers are becoming increasingly commonplace as people pursue gigs and side hustles while keeping their day jobs. On the other hand, I am still searching for my ‘vocation’ — a career where my skills will meet my ‘calling’ that will meet one of the many deep needs of this world.

I’ve yet to find a company or a role that has captured my imagination enough for me to stay longer than a few years. Every few years, I’ve ‘started over’, for the last eleven years. Yet each experience has built on the last. I appreciate every place I’ve worked in, every boss I’ve worked for, and every team I’ve worked with. Each of them have taught me skills I’ve brought into my next role, allowing me to build what most would call a good career. I’ve accumulated generalist skills in one discipline (marketing) while setting myself apart by specializing in a niche skill (writing) — essentially, becoming the T-shaped person described by former IDEO CEO, Tim Brown.

I could say the same thing about my journey with faith and spirituality, which I’ve reconsidered and reexamined again and again over the years. But that is a whole other story on its own and would take up too many paragraphs for the point I’m trying to make.

The point is, perhaps that is what life is about — the pursuit of practice. Just as the most immersive video games are not easy to win — they continue to present us with new, unexpected challenges at every level that test our mettle and push us to the limits of our skill — the best experiences in life aren’t always the ones we win at. We don’t appreciate the wins that come too easily. The best wins in life are those that come with a story. Of how many times we failed before we finally succeeded, or how hard we tried, again and again, before the muscle memory built by hours of practice kicked in, and we made it through.

I remember spending hours testing different routes and approaches to a game, discussing with friends how to approach a certain level, and searching the internet for cheat codes and Easter eggs to unlock hidden abilities. And those things — the pursuit — is perhaps more engaging than winning in itself. The conversations we have with friends about the hard stuff in life, the curiosity to hunt for life hacks and pro tips to get better at things — that is the stuff that makes life meaningful and interesting.

So as we enter a new year, here’s a reminder to all of us (myself included):

Let’s live with a little less fear of failure, and a little more enthusiasm for starting over again. Every single one of us can probably think of at least one way we’ve had to start over in 2021 — and it probably sucked hard, if not still. But perhaps we can see starting over a little differently, as a fresh chance to do things differently, perhaps better. Fully knowing that even this next time around, we still might fail again. We still might see everything we’ve built swept away, again. But if we choose to see our failures as teachers, what we gain can never be taken away: a bit more skill, a bit more knowledge, and a bit more confidence that more failure = more practice = getting better.

Here’s to continuing to level up.

It's been over a year since Covid-19 exploded. A year since I left Finland to return to Malaysia because even then, my gut sense told me: This isn't going to end anytime soon.

Coming home to Malaysia confirmed a few things I know to be true: That Malaysia is where many of my people are. I'm grateful for the friendships, shared meals, heart-to-heart conversations that are easy to find in a place where you spent most of your life growing up. It also reminded me that people play a big role in what feels like home.

A year into moving back, I've had plenty of time to grieve and process a lot of things: the end of a relationship, leaving my cats Rumi and Lira in a place where I know they will have a much better quality of life, the reverse culture shock of adjusting back home, the loss of normalcy.

As some chapters have ended, new ones have begun. New love, new cats, new houses, new friendships, new routines. But for the past few weeks, leading to this one year mark, I've been feeling a sense of unexplainable melancholy. It's only now that I'm beginning to realize that there is still something I'm not fully done grieving yet. Something I'm not sure I'll ever be able to let go of. Distance and time has brought clarity about one thing: My love for Finland runs deep.

Each time a human relationship ends, there's the comforting idea that there's plenty of fish in the sea. A couple billion of them, in fact. But there's only 195 countries in the world. At least around half of them are politically and economically unstable. Only two of them have topped the UN's annual World Happiness Report (which really measures contentment and life satisfaction more than typical happiness, per se) four times. And only one of the two have topped it for four consecutive years in a row - amid the pandemic.

When it comes to fish in this sea, there is really only one such fish.

There are so many reasons Finland has left such an indelible mark on me. It may be the first physical place on earth I really felt like I belonged. Since a very young age, I always felt like I belonged in a global environment. And while I had plenty of fond memories during my undergraduate days in Teesside (UK), when it was time to leave, I was ready to say goodbye. During my time in Teesside, I also faced plenty of discriminatory, racist remarks, including being yelled at by a drunk man on the street to "Go back home to China, Chinese whore!"

I spent a summer in New York a couple of years back to figure out if the epitome of bright lights, big city would be the place for me. While I loved the sense of promise and opportunity and pulsing energy the city held, it felt almost too energetic for me. Especially for the place I was at in my life.

I was recovering from a divorce, trying to make sense of it all - and trying to find what having a relationship with myself meant. I was trying to find fresh meaning in a career after becoming very jaded by everything about working in Malaysia - from our labor laws, to inefficient work cultures, and to low morale and low work ethic being a chronic issue - it all just led to feeling like a cog in a machine.

In the midst of that - I found Finland. I made two trips to Finland, one in the summer and one in the absolute dead of winter, when everything was dark and frozen solid - to be absolutely sure that I could see myself moving there. And both times, the certainty I felt that this was my place could not be more undeniable.

In Finland, I saw a reflection of myself. The phrase "still water runs deep" has been used to describe me by various people throughout my life. And that phrase is an apt one to describe how I feel about Finland. Understated and unassuming on the surface, if you look closer, the land of a thousand lakes is a country brimming and bubbling with life, innovation, ideas, opportunities, and countless quirky and uniquely Finnish nuances you probably couldn't find anywhere else.

In Finland, I found peace in the vast expanses of forest, land, and sea, and a silence so deafening that time slows down and the wind on your face and sounds of geese in the air drown out all the thoughts in your head about your mistakes, regrets, and fears. Standing before a frozen sea so still that all you see when you look ahead is the horizon, I felt small and humbled. It put all my problems into perspective and gave me hope for the future.

Even in my backyard, looking up into a clear winter sky at midnight, seeing a myriad of stars against a dark sky or a moon so full, round, and bright would give me goosebumps. I can't count the number of times I've felt a sense of awe and deep reverence being in nature this untouched, left wild, unfettered, free.

In Finland, I found the freedom that the wild part of my soul has always craved since I was a little girl. The sheer safety of walking around the city at any hour of the day and night meant I could go for a run or walk with Rumi in the dead of night. The first few times I did it, that familiar sense of Malaysian fear (Will I get mugged or raped?) crept in, but after awhile, I came to enjoy the sense of liberation it brought, just being alone in a dark, empty forest, enjoying the crisp, cool air on my face and the wind in my hair as I ran.

To get a sense of how vast nature is in Finland, watch this video:

Finland taught me how to survive -30 Celsius temperatures - and not just survive it - but thrive in it. There's a common saying in Finland that: "There's no such thing as bad weather - only bad clothing." And I've learned that nothing is impossible - including jumping into an icy sea with blocks of ice floating next to you - after you've experienced the healing powers of a steaming hot Finnish sauna.

In response to Finland's harsh weather, and its proximity to Mother Russia, the Finnish spirit of sisu was born. Finns are very proud that they have maintained over a 100 years of independence, despite sharing a border with Russia. The Finnish-Soviet Winter War, in which Finland was attacked by a disproportionately superior Soviet army and managed to maintain their independence, is an event that has been elevated in the Finnish consciousness to an almost legendary status, and it was the event that first made the word sisu mainstream in Finland.

What is sisu? Sisu is a word that means something like "grit" or "resilience", but it goes beyond just persistence in trying times. It's about keeping on even when your very last hope has faded, or in the words of Finnish positive psychology researcher, Emilia Lahti, sisu is what you are left with "when you don't see a silver lining, but you jump into the storm anyway." There are very few concepts in the world that I relate to as strongly as this concept of sisu - because I believe many of the truly transformative journeys we take in life are rarely polished or beautiful - they are messy and at times even bleak and hopeless, like the dead of winter, when everything is stiff and grey and it seems like spring will never come again. And in a wonderfully serendipitous coincidence, my birthday falls on the official Day of Sisu.

In Finland, I found the freedom to be myself - whoever that was. In a culture that so deeply values and upholds respect for human dignity, I have never once felt discriminated against. Not once did people asked me the typical questions minorities get asked everywhere in the world: "But where are you really originally from?" (Usually in a nosy, accusatory tone that implies you are not being truthful.) In fact, never once was I asked an intrusive question about anything in Finland. In Finland, people wait for you to share what you are comfortable sharing - and then, with great interest and a genuine curiosity, they ask more to understand better.

The freedom to be myself was something I felt not only as an individual interacting with other Finns. I felt the same way as an immigrant interacting with the Finnish government. I tell people all the time that the only rights that I don't have as a Finnish resident is voting in the national elections. (But I'm still allowed to vote for my municipal representative!) I have the same access to subsidized healthcare, government insurance, and if I had children, all the parental and childcare benefits (such as the famous baby box) as well. To get my work Visa, it took me a total of two days from the time I submitted my application online to the time I received an email that my application was approved. After being conditioned to believe I am a second-class citizen in my country of origin, it was a shock to be given all these privileges from day 1 in Finland.

"But do you have to speak Finnish?" is a common question I get. I'm not proud to admit it, but in the two years I lived there, I didn't really pick up more than simple greetings, thank yous, and (because I'm a foodie) how to read menu items and almost every label for common ingredients in the supermarket. Beyond that, every government department I interacted with were always understanding and spoke English to me. Even if the documents were in Finnish and Swedish, someone would explain them to me in English.

It's not just peace that came from being around nature in all its untamed beauty that I found in Finland. It's the peace of mind that comes from not having to constantly read between the lines and try to guess people's hidden motives in an extremely low-context communication culture. Finns are extremely modest, down-to-earth, and always sincere. What you see is what you get. You don't see people hiding behind fake smiles - you know if they are having a rough day. But you also know that when they are happy for you - it's a genuine happiness.

Coming from a high-context communication culture, and being by nature a low-context, direct communicator - I found myself able to breathe easier at work and outside of work by just not having to be doing mental gymnastics all the time when communicating with people.

In a country where the national identity is introverted, I found it was okay to be silent and observe. I felt very comfortable eating alone in restaurants, and even on weekends in busy cafes, the ambience never felt overwhelmingly chaotic and loud, as Finns generally speak in calm, mellow tones. As an introvert growing up in Southeast Asia my entire life, and being constantly socially exhausted, this was a haven. But being unassuming by no means equals being less than world-class. Finns lead the world not only on quality of life metrics, but on business innovation metrics as well.

Finland gave the world the first internet browser, SMS technology, ice skates, heart rate monitors, the sauna, Linux (named after Finnish inventor Linus Torvalds), Angry Birds, Clash Royale, and key contributions to 5G technology. And it continues to bring a disproportionate amount of firepower (for the size of its 5.5 million population) to the world stage. In the Global Startup Ecosystem Report 2020, the Greater Helsinki startup ecosystem is the fourth most attractive location among 100 emerging ecosystems worldwide, valued at USD 5.8 billion, which is significantly higher than the global average for emerging ecosystems.

To someone who has never lived in Finland, it might not seem like it has that much to offer, compared to the big cities of the world. But I'll happily trade all the skyscrapers, high streets, shopping malls, and freeways in the world to have the quality of life I had in Finland - built not on anything complicated, but just on getting the simple things right. Respect for human dignity. Not worrying about access to healthcare. Liveable wages for everyone. Safety and freedom. Fresh air and clean water. (I have never tasted water sweeter anywhere else than in Finland, straight from the tap. There have been many moments back here in Malaysia that I would have paid top dollar for a bottle of fresh Finnish water.)

I don't think I will ever let go of what Finland has done for me and to me. Because Finland has shown me that while this kind of quality of life may not be the norm in most parts of the world - it is possible.

Yes, the cynical side of me says well, that may be only because Finland is so small and homogenous, that's why it's possible to implement good policies. (Again, this is the Finnish influence - Being a 'black hat' thinker is something Finns also pride themselves on - almost as if it's only real optimism when you see the worst and are still able to find something worth celebrating.)

But the hopeful side of me believes that while there may be environmental, social, and cultural factors that led to Finland being the country it is today, she holds so many precious and valuable lessons for the world about what it means to be free, to be human, to be brave, to be gutsy, and to be unashamedly yourself, even if that self is not the loudest, the biggest, the shiniest, or the most polished. I will always hold the hope that I will be able to return to Finland again and again throughout my life, in whatever form that may take. But in the meantime, I know the lessons she has left me with are ones I will always carry with me - to shape the environments I am in, wherever I go, for the better - into environments where people, animals, and nature thrive and prosper.

For those who have never been to Finland or fell in love with it the way I have, one of the best ways I can summarize my experience with the country is through music and videos that epitomize Finland. As I did my research into Finland before I moved there, I came across a beautiful piece of music composed by Finnish composer Jean Sibelius in 1899. In his words, this is what inspired Finlandia:

"We fought 600 years for our freedom, and I am part of the generation which achieved it. Freedom! My Finlandia is the story of this fight. It is the song of our battle, our hymn of victory.”

There have been many covers of Finlandia with lyrics set to the music since then. This is one of my favorites:

And this is the full composition: