One size too large

30 Nov 2024

A little too late, a little too soon—sounds like the story of my life. I often feel like I'm two steps behind.¹ Why does the breakthrough always come a little too late? And why does the final call always come a little too soon?

It's the week that I leave, and all of a sudden, I am making more connections than I have had in the past one and a half years. It's the day before I leave, and all of a sudden, I can finally muster up the courage and my language skills from twenty years back to offer help to the man at the station, the one that I've walked past countless times before.

Is it the finality of leaving that draws people together? When there's no impending parting, every day is just like any other. Yet when goodbyes are imminent, you suddenly start counting the days. Or is it just me? Am I just terrible at seizing the moments until it's too late?

It often feels like a game of hide and seek, where life calls out, "Ready or not, here I come," and always catches me unprepared—caught in the tension between who I am and who I could be and between how it is and how it should be.²

Like the girl I saw in the oversized jacket—with the hem that reached down too low and her hands hidden in her much-too-long sleeves—I've often felt that life for me was always one size too large. Like the cotton wool Mum stuffed into the front of my shoes (to make them fit better)—I'd try to make do the best I could. Yet by the time I could remove the cotton wool and wear shoes that actually fit, it wouldn't be long before I would have to wear the next pair of too-big shoes.

Regret comes calling. I wonder if perhaps I could have found a community here had I tried harder. I wished I could have plucked up my courage sooner. Why did I only discover this passion for writing a month before leaving?³

I've ever had thoughts wishing that the current me could redo this and that other stage of my life. I didn't have what it takes to be a good primary school student then. But if I were to go back now, I'd be able to be a good student, a good friend, a good daughter, and the list goes on.

Why is it that life right now always feels too difficult for me? Then if and when I finally have what it takes to manage this stage of my life, I have no choice but to move on to the next phase where everything is difficult yet again. Will life ever fit me? Will I ever be the right size?

I didn't use to be afraid of challenges; I liked them. In fact, I used to want the hard things because I wanted to grow. I remember that for my first teaching position, I intentionally selected the school that my lecturers said had the highest learning curve. I wanted to grow, and I wanted to develop my skills and become good at what I was doing.

I'm afraid that my mindset has shifted, for the worse. Nowadays, I've become quite wary of challenges. I don't feel confident that I can actually do these hard things.

Across the places I've worked at, I've heard a number of times that I have the potential to lead, and in my last work stint, I did end up in a position of managing some people under me.

I think the experience scarred me some. That's probably a bit of a stretch, but the truth is, I really didn't enjoy managing people. Me being me, I was so afraid to offend others, and even when I felt I was being careful not to do so, I'd still inevitably would. I also saw how hard it was to keep people happy. Though it would be unreasonable for them to expect all their individual needs to be met, they were often quick to voice their many dissatisfactions. Trying to manage everyone's expectations just felt like a Sisyphean task.

I know that being a people-pleaser very likely makes for a bad leader, but I don't know if I can become the sort of person who can put those fears aside and just do whatever I believe is best. Managing people is stressful, and at this point, I just feel like I'd rather not have this kind of a headache and heartache.

I sometimes wish that I could enjoy the benefits of growing up without having to actually grow up. The process can be so—painful. Yet I suppose there really isn't any other way to fit into those shoes than to grow into them. And grow I must. Deep breath in. Now go, carry on.

Quite by coincidence, I came across something I wrote two years ago and found it particularly fitting for the moment. I shall leave these words here as a reminder to myself as I close this chapter of my life.

An end, a beginning, and everything in between

31 December 2022—if I had it my way, I would be entering the new year picture-perfect in every way. But as life would have it—here I am—a perfect assortment of messes. I should finally learn my lesson now after all these years of striving—chasing after perfection is chasing after the wind—impossible to attain and ultimately unsatisfying.

There's a whole lot of in-betweens between one beginning and one end, so I should finally start embracing the being in the in-between—to be okay with messy middles, fumbling fingers and faltering feet. To rise again after each fall, not with despondency but with strength and hope, knowing that I am one step closer. And to rest in that tension of being, because I am not alone in this journey, and He is with me.