About Unwritten

I believe life is a collection of quiet moments; the ones we often rush past, yet remember the most. This is my space to pause, reflect, and write about the things that shape me: leaving one home to build another, learning to carry family love across borders, and finding beauty in everyday rituals. I write the way I live with curiosity, gratitude, and an openness to change. Welcome to my corner of the internet. I hope you find something here that makes you pause, too.

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  • On Life Lately

    Life has been so brutally administrative that I’ve started smelling papery or Eau de Photocopy if I’m pushing it. I feel like I have been filed, stamped, and processed all at once.

    First came the EU Blue Talent visa application, with over seventeen documents to be assembled by me, global HR, immigration lawyer and a handful of people who probably never expected to feature in my immigration journey. I was skeptical from the start, especially after doom scrolling Reddit threads declaring you will almost never get it right the first time and that French processing will take ages. And yet, my approval came within a day or two. Singapore efficiency really is a performance enhancing drug for administration (P.S. my application was processed in Singapore through the French Consulate).

    In hindsight, I think the trifecta helped: being Singaporean, holding a Singapore passport, and being hired directly by a French company. Plus my unspoken superpower, which is labeling every document, printing them in order, and submitting everything on the same day. I saw the processing officer’s appreciative/admiring eyes when she noticed the tabs. Her love language got to be act of service.

    I also renewed my passport recently and, of course, it was ready the same day. Spoiled? Yes. Grateful? Absolutely.

    Then came the question of relocating Xia, my five year old rabbit. I never imagined having to choose whether she should follow me to Paris. Rabbits are delicate, and one good scare can put them in danger, so I genuinely was not sure what was best for her. I even paid a pet medium to hear her thoughts lol. Long story short, the answer was yes, bring her, and so I began yet another round of admin.

    Julian has taken on most of the research, saving us what would easily have been thousands in pet relocation fees. From rabies vaccination to microchipping, I felt awful putting her through things she did not ask for, all for my selfish desire to keep her close. But Xia handled everything like a champ, A plus patient as always.

    Temporary housing was next. That was thankfully one of the quick wins, a nice place just twenty minutes from both our offices, sorted without too much drama.

    Now that the dust has settled, at least for this week, I can finally breathe a little. There is still more paperwork waiting for me in the coming weeks, because France will never run out, but getting through this round feels like crawling out from under a mountain of forms. Sitting down and writing my thoughts, marking this tiny victory for myself, feels like a small but necessary celebration. So I took Julian out for a quick errand, ending the day with an iced matcha latte and aapple pie crumble cheesecake. I can already feel the holiday vibe nearing.

  • First Pour

    Let’s be honest – nobody actually enjoys their first pour of beer. We all pretend, but that first sip? Pure betrayal. I had mine when I was around five. It was Chinese New Year, the kind where the whole family squeezed around the telly watching Hong Kong action comedies that were chaotic, nonsensical, and somehow perfect. Dad would sit there with his can of beer and a plateful of gua zii. He always looked so relaxed when he drank – lighter, warmer, like something in him softened.

    One year, when Mom wasn’t watching, he tipped the can toward me. I took a sip. It tasted so bad I couldn’t even pretend… like carbonated punishment. Compared to my Coke Original, I genuinely questioned why any sane adult would voluntarily consume that.

    Fast forward many years. Sometime after high school, beer came back into my life (socially and cheaply). It was the most affordable way to get that light buzz that makes the world feel less heavy. Back then, the point wasn’t flavour; it was escape in a bottle, ease disguised as a drink. I didn’t love beer, but I loved what it allowed my mind to forget, even briefly.

    But as the years went by, something shifted. I stopped drinking to forget and started drinking to enjoy. Bit by bit, sip by sip, I grew to appreciate beer – the way it can be smooth, or crisp, or creamy depending on where you are and who you’re with. I found pours I genuinely love: the rich velvet of Guinness, the nostalgic comfort of Taiwan Tsingtao, the easy sweetness of Blanc 1664. It became a companion to conversations, to travel, to quiet nights where I just want something familiar in my hand.

    Maybe that’s how it works. You survive enough of life, and your palate expands. The drink that once tasted like fizzy regret becomes something you choose because it brings you back to people, places, and moments that matter.

    so wherever you are, and with whatever you’re drinking

    cheers.

  • The Long Goodbye

    Unwritten by Jade

    Lately, I’ve been spending more time with my grandma. She’s 92 now; still sharp in spirit, but softer around the edges. These days, she’s mostly in her wheelchair, growing tired more easily, sleeping longer, and gently refusing when I ask if she wants to go out for a walk. So we stay in and I listen.

    Sometimes she talks about the past, about people and places that blur together now. Some stories start mid-sentence, some trail off. I don’t correct her. I just let her voice fill the room. There’s a tenderness in hearing fragments of her memories, even when they no longer line up neatly.

    Every now and then, I still sneak her out of the house for a short meal somewhere familiar. We’ll share porridge or noodles, and I’ll hold her hand as I wheel her slowly through the streets. Her grip feels smaller now, but it’s still steady, still warm. These little escapes feel like borrowed time, precious in their ordinariness.

    It feels a little morbid, to be thinking about how to say goodbye while she’s still here. But volunteering with terminally ill patients has changed the way I see time. It’s made me aware of how fragile presence can be, how quickly the everyday can become memory. I’ve seen what happens when people run out of chances to say what they mean. And maybe that’s why I want to start saying it now, while I still can.

    Goodbyes don’t always come suddenly. Sometimes they begin quietly, in afternoons like this when you start noticing what’s fading, when you realize love is no longer about fixing but about being.

    I don’t know when that moment will come. But I can choose how I spend the time that’s left: by listening, by sitting close, by loving her fully while she’s still here.

  • Work in Progress

    Unwritten by Jade

    People often tell me, “You’ve got your life together.”

    It’s meant as a compliment, the kind that lands between admiration and assumption. They see the calm, the achievements, the decisions that look intentional. They see the girl who plans ahead, who seems to always know what she’s doing.

    But the truth? I’m still figuring things out, like everyone else.

    I have a running to-do list that lives on my desk, most of it underlined in red marker, half-finished tasks staring back at me like quiet reminders that control is often just an illusion. Some days, crossing an item off feels like victory. Other days, the list itself feels heavier than it should.

    And if I’m honest, I know I’m doing better than most of my close circle. I have a job that both men and women often tell me they envy. I have the time and freedom to do the things I love, to travel, to write, to pour myself into work that feels meaningful. From the outside, it looks like I’ve won some kind of balance. But even within that, there are nights when the quiet gets too loud, when the weight of keeping it all together feels heavier than it looks.

    I overthink. I second-guess. I make plans and then question them five minutes later. Some days I wake up ready to take on the world; other days I’m just trying to get through the noise inside my head. There are mornings when I move through life with confidence, and nights when I quietly unravel behind closed doors.

    People see the version of me that’s composed but not the one that still battles self-doubt, or the fear of not being enough. They don’t see the late-night moments where I replay conversations, or the quiet anxiety of wanting to be strong for everyone and yet secretly needing a break.

    Having it “together” isn’t about perfection, it’s about persistence. About showing up even when your voice shakes, or when the red lines on your to-do list remind you how unfinished everything still feels. It’s about being both proud of the progress and patient with the process.

    So no, I don’t have it all together.

    But I have awareness. I have effort. I have heart.

    And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

  • On Words That Cannot Be Taken Back

    There are words that leave our mouths too quickly (sharp, unfiltered, sometimes louder than they should be). We say them because we’re tired, defensive, or hurt. And then, when silence returns, we wish we could gather them back. But words, once released, have their own afterlife.

    Today, I supported a case that reminded me just how heavy unspoken words can become. The patient had less than 48 hours left. His final wish was simple – to watch his favourite Ultraman movie from the hospital bed he could no longer leave. But his siblings wanted something more. They asked if they could share a meal together, one last family dinner with longevity noodles, chilli crab, sweet and sour pork, pork ribs, and durian chendol.

    It would have been an ordinary meal, if not for the years of silence that came before it. Their father had passed away only three months ago. Their mother, long before that. Out of six siblings, one had already left the world, and another refused to come, unable to bridge the distance that past quarrels had built. Even among those who gathered, disagreements surfaced: about what to serve, how to proceed, who should speak. At one point, emotions ran high enough to fracture the room again.

    In the end, they chose to move forward anyway with a birthday cake for his upcoming 54th, a family photoshoot, dinner, and an Ultraman marathon playing softly in the background.

    When the food arrived, the patient began to eat slowly, tasting each dish that reminded him of better times. Halfway through the meal, his tears slipping down without a word. The rest of the family noticed but stayed silent, afraid that anything they said might make things worse. Yet in that silence, something shifted. It was heavy, but it was gentle too.

    While eating the chilli crab, the younger brother began peeling the shell for him. He smiled faintly and said, “We used to sit together like this, all of us sharing chilli crab as a family.” The room softened. No one replied, but no one needed to. The memory did what words could not.

    As I picked off the dishes and fed the patient until he was done, I couldn’t help but think about my own siblings , about the times I’ve spoken too sharply, even when my heart meant well. Watching Ultraman Leo play in the background, episodes one to three, Sink of Japan brought me back to our own childhood, when my siblings and I would sit side by side watching Ultraman too. We are still close, still bound by laughter and habit, but moments like this remind me how fragile togetherness can be if we stop choosing it.

    Later, the patient told the social worker that he was deeply touched by the arrangement, but also scared.. scared of what was coming, and of leaving while there were still things left unsaid.

    Regret, I’ve learned, isn’t always born of what we didn’t achieve. It often comes from the things we couldn’t unsay. I’ve seen tears fall from both love and remorse: two emotions that, in the end, often share the same roots.

    Perhaps that’s what compassion really is not perfection, but repair. The choice to show up, even after words have failed. To listen without defending. To offer warmth, not explanation.

    I’m still learning to pause. To breathe before speaking. To let silence carry the weight instead of my temper. Because sometimes, kindness is not in the words we use but in the ones we choose to withhold.

  • In Between Sushi

    During a recent trip to Japan, I found myself noticing small details I might have overlooked before: the local servers who moved with politeness but carried a hint of exhaustion; the shop owners who smiled patiently through conversations half-lost in translation; the effort it takes, every day, to serve a constant wave of outsiders while trying to preserve one’s own rhythm of life.

    There was empathy in watching it and discomfort too. Because tourism and migration are cousins. Both bring movement, exchange, and opportunity. But they also test a society’s limits of patience, identity, and belonging.

    That observation stayed with me, especially now as I prepare to relocate to Paris in the months ahead. I’m not just changing countries; I’m crossing into a different culture, a new language, a slower cadence of understanding. And while my move is planned and somewhat supported, it still requires the same internal negotiation that every migrant faces: how much of myself to adapt, and how much to protect.

    Immigration today sits at a crossroads between necessity and fear. Nations need new talent, new energy, new hands. But politically, immigration remains framed as a loss of jobs, of security, of identity for locals. The irony is that modern economies rely on what their politics often resist.

    Administrations should design systems that welcome contribution without erasing individuality. They should invest in integration, not assimilation. Perhaps the first step would be to raise awareness and tell the truth: no modern economy functions without migrants.

    Immigration is not a charity, nor is it a threat. It’s the ongoing story of how humanity moves forward one crossing, one conversation, and one compromise at a time.

    And perhaps that’s what my time in Japan reminded me: every interaction, every shared moment across language or culture, is an act of coexistence. It’s messy, tiring, and profoundly human. The world isn’t getting smaller; it’s getting closer. And the challenge isn’t how to stop it but how to meet it with grace.

  • Twelve Hours

    In exactly twelve hours, I’ll be getting married right here, in my childhood home.

    No ballroom, no aisle, no string quartet. Just the same living room where I once did my homework, argued with my siblings, and spent weekends half-watching TV. It feels strange, sacred even, that the place that raised me will also witness this next chapter.

    The decorations are simple a mix of red and white, a truce between my mother’s traditions and my minimalist heart. Xia’s hopping around somewhere, probably unimpressed by the whole thing. My gown’s hanging quietly in the corner, still in its garment bag, waiting for the morning.

    There’s a calm in the air that I didn’t expect. I thought I’d feel nervous jittery, emotional, overwhelmed. But instead, it feels… full. Like everything that was supposed to happen, did.

    I’m here, typing this in the same room where my younger self used to dream about what love would look like. It’s not the fairytale I imagined, but it’s better quieter, truer, built on small things that feel big when you look closely.

    Twelve hours from now, we’ll exchange vows in front of the people who matter most. My parents, my siblings, my grandmother. The ones who’ve seen me grow, fall, rebuild, and love again.

    And maybe that’s what marriage really is not the grand beginning of something new, but a quiet continuation of everything that’s led you here.

  • The Rush to Judge

    We live in a world that judges fast and forgives slow. One headline, one post, one wrong sentence taken out of context and the verdict is in before the story even begins.

    I’ve caught myself doing it too. Forming opinions too quickly, convinced I’ve seen enough to know the whole truth. It’s easy to feel righteous when you’re sitting behind a screen, watching other people’s lives unfold like a highlight reel of mistakes.

    But judgment is cheap. It doesn’t cost much to point fingers from a distance. What’s hard is to pause, to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, to admit that there might be more to the story than what’s visible.

    Cancel culture has turned that impulse into a sport. We call it accountability, but too often it’s entertainment dressed as morality. Someone messes up, and we gather not to understand, but to burn. The line between consequence and cruelty gets blurrier every year.

    I think about how, not long ago, mistakes used to stay small. You said something you shouldn’t have, hurt someone you didn’t mean to, learned, changed. Now, one bad moment can follow you forever, permanent scar in a world that preaches growth but rarely allows it.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve started slowing down my reactions. When someone disappoints me, I try to look for patterns, not moments. Intent, not perfection. The truth is, everyone’s capable of being both the hero and the villain, depending on the day.

    I’ve been misjudged before by people who caught a glimpse of me in a moment I wasn’t proud of. And if I’m honest, it still stings. It’s humbling to realise how fragile reputation is, and how quickly empathy disappears when someone else’s downfall makes us feel better about our own.

    So now, before I judge, I pause. Before I comment, I breathe. Because the world doesn’t need more noise, it needs more people willing to understand that being human means being messy.

    Maybe compassion isn’t about excusing what people do wrong, but about remembering that none of us are ever just one version of ourselves.

  • My Firsts

    I’ve always had a good memory. Sometimes it works in my favour, other times, it clings to things I wish it wouldn’t. But that’s what makes “firsts” so powerful. They stay with you, even when you think you’ve outgrown them.

    I remember my grandma and mom’s dumpling soup, how the kitchen smelled like warmth and home. My first family picnic by the beach, sand sticking to wet feet and watermelon juice running down our hands. My first tuition teacher, Miss Yap, who looked across her desk and probably thought I was going to be an academic genius like my sister. She was also the first teacher I admired, and the first who punished me for something I didn’t do.

    There was my first star-pupil badge. The first time I carried books for my favourite Chinese teacher to the staff room. The first boy I had a crush on I was seven, and he had a pencil case with built-in buttons. Technology at its peak. My first best friend. My first defender. My first small win that made the world feel suddenly wide. And my first time going to the movies proudly booking the front row, thinking it was the best seat in the house, spending two hours staring up at the screen with a sore neck and zero regrets.

    Then came the firsts that shaped me differently. My first part-time job. My first solo trip which led to the start of ten more. My first relationship. My first heartbreak. My first time having sex, and how I absolutely hated it. Lol years later came my first time enjoying sex, realising, oh, so this is what it’s meant to feel like.

    My first venture. My first full-time job. My first appraisal that made me feel seen.

    Some firsts were joyful, others quietly brutal. But all of them taught me something. My first heartbreak taught me boundaries. My first betrayal taught me dignity. My first encounter with death standing before a body that would never move again taught me how fragile everything truly is. Not every first is meant to be cherished, but each one leaves its mark.

    There was my first relocation,Taiwan, and the first time I cried from homesickness. My first long-distance relationship, my first betrayal, my first pet rabbit Xia. My first club night that left my heart pounding louder than the bass. My first hospital stay. My first surgery. My first wish-granting experience, watching someone smile through pain and understanding, finally, what purpose feels like.

    Then came the quieter firsts. The first time I looked at my newborn nephew in the hospital, tiny fingers wrapped around mine. The first time I carried my niece in my arms, her heartbeat resting against my chest, realising love can expand in ways you never plan for.

    The first time I chased after someone across air miles. The first time I gave up on love. The first time I found it again, when I least believed I would. The first time I was proposed to.

    And now, as I look back on all these firsts, I can’t help but wonder what the next one will be my first major relocation, this time to Europe. A new rhythm. A new life. Another beginning that will one day be a memory too.

    Firsts have a way of reminding us that every “new” is just another version of ourselves being born again.

    And maybe that’s what makes life worth living: the courage to keep showing up for our next first.

  • On Forgiveness

    Forgiveness is one of those words people (like me lol) like to romanticize, as if it’s a soft, graceful act. But it’s brutal work. Forgiving someone means accepting that you won’t get the apology you wanted, or the closure you rehearsed a hundred times in your head.

    Learning to stop replaying the same moment of betrayal, the disappointment.. the thing they said and you can’t unsay.

    I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you, the version of you that’s been stuck, bitter, exhausted from dragging that weight around. I’ve carried some for months. The irony is, the longer you hold on, the more it becomes yours. The pain stops belonging to the person who caused it and starts belonging to the person who keeps it alive.

    But self-forgiveness? That’s harder. It’s one thing to forgive others for what they did. It’s another to forgive yourself for what you allowed and ignored. Sometimes, it’s not even a single moment you regret, it’s the person you were back then.

    I’ve had to learn to be kinder to those earlier versions of myself, the one who stayed too long, who spoke too soon, who didn’t stand up for herself. She didn’t have what I know now. She did what she could with what she had. If only she knew and did.

    Forgiveness isn’t a one-time act. It’s a process. Some days you think you’ve let go, and then something small like a song, a scent.. pulls the wound open again. That’s okay. Healing isn’t linear.

    In the end, forgiveness isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about accepting that it did and choosing not to let it define what comes next.