Last days / closing notes

07 Feb, 2026

It’s my last day at a men’s haircutting course, and I’m unexpectedly bummed about it. The course was only four days long, and yet it was four days long enough for me to know what I’ll lose and miss now that this fleeting journey has come to a close.

I will miss setting up my workspace in the mornings: gathering my materials together, attaching my mannequin head atop a tripod, awaiting eagerly our instructions and tasks for the day. I will miss standing behind my mannequin—spraying, combing, sectioning, cutting, blending—as the overachiever in me shot for perfection and missed by a mile. I will miss learning like a child, miss picking up a skill from scratch and having completely foreign muscles movements become familiar as I learnt to hold and manipulate my tools adeptly.

I will miss feeling like a child again, to not be the teacher for once and instead have a teacher to teach me, to freely ask my beginner questions without feeling stupid, and to have someone hold me by the hand and guide me. I will miss closing my day at hairdressing school cleaning up: putting my tools away and sweeping up after. I will miss feeling like a student in my design school days.

I will miss my commutes by train and walking the long escalators up and down to keep up my walking/hiking streak after Taiwan. I will miss my hasty-papaya-slice breakfasts on-the-go, my quiet lunches and simply being able to be alone with my thoughts for the day.

I will miss my teacher :(

And it feels silly and childish to feel this way when she is practically a stranger that I know next to nothing of. But this is a childish habit that I can’t seem to shake, where once in a while, I find myself drawn to certain people for reasons I can’t explain, even when they’re not someone that I would fall into the same social circles with, even when we are unlikely to click. I keep “falling for” these people I barely know, wishing that I could have a chance to know them personally, wishing that somehow or some way we could be friends. And despite knowing full well that this can only be an impossible daydream, I still can’t stop myself from longing that we could meet under different circumstances; I still can’t help hoping that here and now we could be something other than almost strangers. The moment of tangency grips me, and I’m lost in the echoes of what I wish could have been.

It’s been a year of strange last days.

One afternoon in June, I walked home with my arms full of books and my mind aswirl with thoughts, weighed down not by the belongings I had emptied from my cupboard, but by the words and events that had marked the end of yet another chapter in my life. At that moment of transit, I truly felt like the main character in a drama scene, carting a box of belongings away from the workplace after being unfairly fired. The aftertaste was—bitter.

I was not expecting anything from anyone, and yet I could not help but feel sad at the way it had all come to an end. My six months of giving everything I had to the job ended with my supervisor dismissing me right after she acquired my signature on an exit form. Knowing her, I already knew not to expect any sort of farewell or form of public acknowledgement, but to not even say a word of thanks in person to your staff on her last day?—this takes the cake.

Then I had to add to the drama by ending things on my terms—well, getting the last word, that is—and possibly leaving her with an even more negative impression of me. Despite being civil and couching it as seeking the growth of the centre, I did not mince my words about what I felt should have been done better, and by that I meant, what I felt she should have done better. And judging by my understanding of my supervisor in the six months that I worked under her, I don’t suppose that might be something she would welcome even if she did not seem antagonistic during our conversation.

I said my piece, followed my heart and did all that I possibly could, and still that did not soften the blow of the way things had to end. I had always been conscientious about my work, so it felt unfamiliar to leave on such a negative note, and to have my only takeaway be the thought that I now knew what the colleagues who had left before must have felt at their leaving. That day was hard on me as I tried to pick up the pieces, to process the way my first work chapter since returning home came to a close, and to work through the disappointment of feeling unappreciated and devalued.

That last day was a strange one, but what I didn’t expect was that the next would come so soon, not even six months later.

This time, the last day caught me by surprise. I had expected to be around for my one month’s notice. But the way things worked out, I worked my last day scarcely a week after informing of my intentions to quit. Having to leave so suddenly threw me out of kilter. On that final day, I worked overtime trying to clear as much class prep as I could for the teacher I was meant to work with in the new school year. I spent most of the day alone in a bit of a mad rush, printing, cutting and laminating. Once more there was no farewell, just me informing a few people I knew that it was my last day there before I slipped away like a shadow, yet again.

I had not planned on changing jobs. But somehow, after a series of unexpected events unfolded and after much deliberation, I made the choice to leave my current workplace to take up on another job offer. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. In some ways, staying put would have been the path of least resistance, to keep the status quo instead of starting from scratch all over again. But I was compelled to take up the opportunity, to choose not the job that I had worked so hard to get, but the one that was gifted to me.

Now I will be starting a new job again come January, and even though this is a path I feel led to, it is nonetheless daunting. It’s only been a year since I left my life in W behind, but it feels like I’ve lived several lives since. And now with the new year beginning, I will be uprooted once again, right when the soil beneath my feet was starting to become somewhat familiar.

This month, we made a trip to Taiwan, and though there are no words to describe some of the places I experienced—the places I “breathed in” with my body—these are the moments I want to write and remember.

Visiting Taipingshan and witnessing the cloud sea and cloud waterfall. Walking the Jianqing Historic Trail where the fog gave way to sunbeams, shining through lush trees down on mossy tracks. Viewing Cuifeng Lake and deeply appreciating the beauty of absolute silence (the snatches of it that I did hear, that is, no thanks to some inconsiderate visitors that also included my in-laws, unfortunately).

If there is a place I would like to go back to, it would be to this lake. There is no way to imagine the sound of silence when you’ve lived all your life in the city. But those few moments of peace changed me. What I would give for the chance to sit in silence and watch the sun rise on that quiet lake. Ah, Cuifenghu, you will always have a special place in my heart.

And that is why I am so grateful that we even made it to Taipingshan because there were road closures due to landslides leading up to the day of our trip. Thankfully, we were able to push back the trip by one day with our driver, and the roads opened up just in time for us. We were also very blessed to beat the crowds whenever we hit the trails, with the last-minute change in dates making a big difference to the crowd since we ended up visiting on a weekday instead. Otherwise, I am certain that our experience would have been an altogether different one.

Our trip to Bambi Land was a pleasant surprise. I had only thrown it into our itinerary because of the five-year-old and because I had a day’s activities to fill and no better options at the time. We had the morning to ourselves—just the three of us—roaming around petting and feeding deers, capybaras and donkeys, collecting ink stamps on a card to complete a Christmas-themed illustration, taking photos at some of the cute picture points, enjoying a really decent Hokkaido milk ice cream cone. I generally prefer to avoid these kinds of animal establishments, but Bambi Land surprised me, with the animals looking clean, healthy and well cared for. Though small, the place was thoughtfully designed, and I enjoyed the little activities they included in the experience (for free) and appreciated the cute designs they had peppered throughout.

Luodong Forestry Culture Park exceeded my expectations as well. Having been to enough places to make a comparison, I can say for certain that this isn’t a place that would make it into any best-of lists, but that to me is precisely the point. Perhaps sometimes it is not always the best or the most that can satisfy. I really enjoyed our quiet amble in that understated park.

We visited Sandiaoling to see the waterfalls, and though the hike was slightly disappointing—the views on trail were mid except for the one waterfall that we did hike up to—Sandiaoling ended up being one of the highlights of the trip for me.

There is something about Sandiaoling that charms me though I struggle to put it into words. But my short stroll around that little village felt like stepping into a different world—like stepping back in time and to a place where time moved slower.

There is a quaint little cafe where the cats roam freely and the owners collect vintage items. There, the cream puffs are made from scratch and a stone wall stands, built by hand.

A man grills Taiwanese sausages by the lonely path near his home, and as I pass him, I feel a tinge of guilt, wondering if and when anyone would buy his sausages.

A train rushes from the tunnel towards me before it turns a bend, and I walk along the tracks with the wind in my face and the river in my ears. There’s something about being here that awakens my body, that makes me feel alive.

I see my shoes and the mud stains that I’m not positive will wash out.

I think Sandiaoling will stay with me for a while.

Our time in Taipei ended in a completely unexpected way when our after-dinner stroll one evening took us past a crime scene, two days before our flight home. I still remember our naivety as we stood in the crowd watching the presence of emergency personnel with curiosity. Even after we overheard that someone had jumped and were told that there was a man throwing smoke bombs who also had a knife, we lingered, observing as people evacuated from the building and SWAT team members entered. It was only after we returned to our apartment and I found news and a video of a man throwing smoke grenades at the train station did the gravity of what was happening sink in. Later, as we watched the local news live piece together a sequence of events and casualties, we too stitched a patchwork of the “random” events—all the what-ifs—that had led to our many fortunate near misses.

What if we had continued shopping after stopping by the umbrella shop? I had wanted to see more shops in the area, yet I didn’t refuse when my husband suggested returning to the apartment. Separately, my in-laws had ventured to another mall to shop but had turned back prematurely for no apparent reason. Had we been out for longer, we would have passed the train station on our way back possibly around the same time when the attack happened.

What if my father-in-law had not put his jeans in the wash right when it neared dinnertime? We were slightly annoyed to have to delay dinner to wait for the load to be done. But had we left earlier, we would have finished dinner and strolled around earlier than we actually did, which could have put us in the area around the mall when the incident took place.

And what if we had gone to the hot pot restaurant that my husband originally decided on? Our change in dinner plans thanks to the jeans in the wash meant that we did not walk along the same path around the same time as the attacker.

What if we had happened upon the scene of the crime earlier and had heard or seen the man fall?

The day after, on our last full day in Taiwan, even as we ate xiaolongbaos for breakfast and took our son to the children’s amusement park, and even as Taipei and its citizens continued life as usual, I wondered if everyone like me had found in themselves something shifted.

What kind of life is truly worth living?

When I look back on 2025, I see a trend of spontaneity, of jumping into things on the fly, which is both expected and unexpected of me. It’s the irony of ADHD how I can both be impulsive in doing things I don’t plan to and how it is also near impossible for me to start doing the things I actually want to. And so I have been pleasantly surprised to discover how much I have accomplished (in the act of starting or doing something) this year. It always feels like a miracle when I actually get something done (disclaimer: done often does not mean finished) because motivation is not something I can manufacture.

Motivation for me is like the wind—when it blows, I flow, though I never know when or from where the wind is coming. Like a bucket of water at a water playground, I can only flow when I reach tipping point. 动力dongli | motivation, or the power to move, comes only when everything falls into place, when I have all that is needed to give me that push—and all movement that comes thereafter is organic.

In 2025,

• We completed seven hikes, three of which we did overseas. As expected, none of the hikes were too long since we had a preschooler with us, though to his credit, our five-year-old recently completed a longer 8km hike locally!

• We took the plunge and bought ourselves secondhand bikes, and now we have become a family that bikes. I am so proud of my son, who has come so far from the crying three-year-old that I once lost my cool with one blazing summer afternoon in W, who was adamant about giving up and going home after a mere three steps on the pedals. He was only two months shy of four when the bedsheet-harness hack we learnt online outlived its usefulness, as he had learnt how to balance and ride his two-wheeler on his own. Slowly but surely, he picked up the skills to independently push off and start pedalling, to push his bike around, to use the brakes, to go up and down slopes, to navigate sharper turns, and to follow safety directions so that we could actually commute together. My son is far ahead of me when it comes to riding a bike—I was nine when I learnt how to ride a two-wheeler and only started commuting by bike this year. Our decision to purchase bikes has been one of the best we made. I never was a confident cyclist, but at the age of over thirty, biking has now become second-nature to me, like a familiar language I don’t have to think to understand. And it feels like freedom—zipping away without a care as a song finds its way to my lips, riding hands-free with so much ease. Evenings are the best, when the night envelops me in the dark and wind.

• We watched six orchestra performances, only two of which were paid events. In Taipei, we caught one by chance that was performed by elementary school students. I find it interesting how similar to hiking, seeing the orchestra is a new interest that I’ve only discovered in recent years.

• I have been learning to play the violin alongside my son and have been enjoying our weekly lessons. I find it quite amazing how once completely impossible movements—that is, holding the bow with the correct bow hold—can become natural and easy with practice over time. We’re still playing pretty basic things, since we’re following my son’s pace, but I’m enjoying myself nonetheless.

• I gave my five-year-old four haircuts with the rudimentary clipper and scissor skills I learnt off Youtube, which excludes the one haircut I botched where I completely forgot about the clipper attachment and had to make a mad bike dash to the hairdresser to salvage. Although I remain convinced that my son still looked cute with the home haircuts I gave him, my time at hairdressing school has opened my eyes to see clearly how lacking my skills are. Now I am looking forward to putting some of my newly minted skills to practice and hope to be able to take up the next level course come June.

“Accomplishments” aside, it’s been about nine months since I gave up on therapy after attending three or four sessions because I really couldn’t see it working out for me. I kept showing up to each session hoping that I’d finally receive something helpful this time but would always leave disappointed. I was throwing money down the drain, paying people who seemed less informed than me about ADHD to tell me things I already knew, paying people to echo my questions and then expect an answer out of me. I can get the idea of teaching a man to fish, but all I really wanted was some practical help and some real solutions to my struggles, not an expensive coaching session to guide me to find the answers that supposedly exist somewhere within me. And so I’ve been back to winging it on my own in life and am at the moment, doing somewhat okay.

Just like that, it’s already been a year since we moved back home. And though I have gotten used to life here despite multiple transitions, I still look back on my time in W with a sense of wistfulness. What if we could have stayed? What kind of person would I be if I still had my life in W? What kind of person would my son be if he had continued schooling there? We would all be very different people, of that I am certain, without the experiences of the past year, and I am made plainly aware of how much of us is shaped by the environment we are in. It is also clear to me that there is no better version between the two—that they would only have been different—and that the only life we have to live is the one we are already living. Yet this experience I had stepping into a whole different life abroad opened a door to the tantalising realm of what-ifs. And it’s not that I even particularly dislike my life right now; it’s just the feeling of loss—the feeling of losing something I once had.

“We’re all growing old.” I remember how tears sprang to my eyes the day I heard those words, and I was hit by this awareness of life passing by. I’ve always felt loss keenly, even as a young child, and this sense of loss has only followed me through every age and stage.

And at the close of what feels to be a spontaneous 2025, and with the thoughts of my last days in Taiwan still lingering, all I hope is to be able to live 2026 with intent. I want to find meaning in all the meaningless days of life. I want to stop chasing the wind. I want to seek and ask for just one thing—that which is all that truly matters.