I think there’s a certain time in life when you start to realize that being a good person doesn’t necessarily mean good things will happen to you. Not that I ever believed the world owed me anything for being kind, but I suppose there was always this rather childish assumption that if you treated people well, loved them sincerely, and tried your best not to hurt anyone, things would somehow work out in your favor. Or at the very least, you’d be spared from some of life’s more unpleasant experiences. Well, as it turns out, that’s not how any of this works. And to be fair, I don’t think it should.
I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. Which is rather embarrassing to admit, considering that I’m a grown man with a full-time job, bills to pay, and a rather concerning number of things I should probably be worrying about instead. Yet somehow, in between meetings, emails, and the occasional existential crisis, I still find myself thinking about something as ridiculously ordinary as falling in love. Or perhaps more accurately, what happens when you fall out of it. Or when you don’t, but the other person does. That’s probably the worst combination.
It’s funny how we tend to romanticize heartbreak. There are countless songs, films, books, and poems about it, and some of the greatest works of art were probably made by people who were absolutely miserable at the time. I suppose there’s something strangely appealing about the idea of suffering beautifully. You get your heart broken, spend a few nights staring at the ceiling, listen to some Frank Ocean, and suddenly you’re the protagonist of your own tragic little film. Except real heartbreak is considerably less cinematic. Most of the time, you’re just a guy sitting in traffic, thinking about someone who probably isn’t thinking about you. And then the light turns green, and you have to drive.
Life goes on. How incredibly rude of it.
For a while, I thought heartbreak was something you experienced once, learned from, and eventually became immune to. You’d come out of it a little wiser, a little more cautious, and hopefully better equipped to deal with whatever comes next. But I don’t think that’s entirely true. You can understand perfectly well why something didn’t work out, recognize all the things that were wrong with it, and still find yourself wishing it had turned out differently. Apparently, being rational and being human are two entirely separate occupations, and I seem to be particularly bad at doing both simultaneously.
Perhaps the strangest thing about getting older is realizing that people can be both wonderful and wrong for you. Someone can make you genuinely happy, give you some of the best memories of your life, and still not be the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of it with. There’s no villain in that story. No grand betrayal, no dramatic confrontation, no satisfying conclusion where somebody gets what they deserve. Sometimes two people simply want different things, or want the same things at different times, or discover that loving each other isn’t enough to make everything else work. And I think that’s much harder to accept than having someone to blame.
And I’m starting to wonder whether I have actually moved on at all. I spent months trying to get my life back together, meeting new people, going on dates, and convincing myself that there were plenty of other women out there. And there are. I’m sure of it. But somehow, none of that seemed particularly convincing when I came across her picture unexpectedly.
I still find her incredibly attractive. I still miss certain things about being with her. Sometimes I still catch myself imagining what it would be like if we tried again, even though I know there were plenty of reasons our relationship didn’t work out the first time.
But I don’t want this to be another sad piece about lost love. God knows I’ve spent enough time thinking about that already, and I’m beginning to suspect my heart is running out of polite ways to tell me to move on.
Which brings me to the title of this post.
Heartbreaker Season.
I like how it sounds. There’s something almost arrogant about it, isn’t there? Like the title of an album by a new indie artist who recently discovered leather jackets, expensive sunglasses, and the joys of being emotionally unavailable. It sounds like the beginning of a rather questionable era in someone’s life. The sort of thing a man announces after getting rejected, before proceeding to make a series of terrible decisions and calling it character development, which is actually a series of desperate attempts to restore bruised ego and fragile masculinity.
And perhaps that’s exactly why I find it amusing.
Because, contrary to what the title might suggest, I have absolutely no intention of going around breaking people’s hearts. I don’t think I’d be particularly good at it anyway. I’ve always been the sort of person who gets attached too easily, thinks too much, and occasionally mistakes a pleasant conversation for the beginning of something extraordinary. Not exactly the qualifications of a professional heartbreaker. If anything, I’m probably more qualified to be the customer than the service provider.
Still, there’s something about the idea of a heartbreaker season that I find strangely liberating. Not because I want to hurt anyone, but because I wonder what it would be like to stop approaching every romantic possibility as though it might be the beginning of the rest of my life.
I’ve always been a rather sentimental person. I remember dates, places, conversations, little details that probably meant nothing to anyone else. I attach songs to people and memories to ordinary streets. I imagine futures that haven’t happened and occasionally mourn them when they don’t. I romanticize some things of what they can become, rather than what actually happened already. It’s a terrible habit, really, especially when you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re a perfectly reasonable adult. And while I don’t necessarily think there’s anything wrong with being sentimental, I’ve started to wonder whether I’ve spent too much time falling in love with possibilities rather than realities.
Maybe someone is just someone. Maybe a nice dinner is just a nice dinner. Maybe two people can enjoy each other’s company without immediately wondering whether their children would inherit their curly hair. Maybe attraction doesn’t have to become affection, and affection doesn’t always have to become commitment. Perhaps there’s something to be said for allowing things to happen without constantly trying to figure out what they mean.
Of course, this is much easier to write than to practice. I know myself well enough to realize that one particularly good conversation with a pretty woman could turn this entire paragraph completely useless.
But I’m trying.
And I think that’s what this season is really about. Not becoming colder, more cynical, or deliberately careless with other people’s feelings. I don’t particularly admire men who treat emotional detachment as some sort of masculine achievement. Being incapable of caring isn’t a personality trait worth celebrating, as far as I’m concerned. Nor do I want to become one of those people who use their past disappointments as an excuse to behave terribly toward someone who had absolutely nothing to do with them.
I just want to be a little less afraid.
Afraid of meeting someone new. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of getting attached. Afraid of discovering that I still have feelings for someone I thought I’d moved on from. Afraid that the next person won’t be as wonderful as the last, or that I’ll spend the rest of my life comparing everyone to a memory that has probably become considerably more beautiful in my head than it ever was in reality.
And perhaps, most embarrassingly, afraid that I won’t be loved the way I want to be loved.
It’s an uncomfortable thing to admit, especially as a man. We’re often expected to be confident, composed, and relatively nonchalant about these things. There’s this idea that a man should always be the one doing the pursuing, taking the risks, making the decisions, and accepting rejection with a shrug and a drink. And I suppose there’s some truth to the importance of being able to handle disappointment gracefully. But I also think there’s a difference between being strong enough to accept rejection and pretending that rejection doesn’t hurt.
It does. Sometimes quite badly. And then, eventually, it doesn’t hurt quite as much.
I don’t know whether there’s some grand lesson for me at the end of all this. I’m becoming more skeptical of the idea that every unpleasant experience must teach us something profound. Sometimes things happen, they suck, and we move on. Not everything needs to become a metaphor for personal growth. Sometimes you just need a good night’s sleep, a decent haircut, a workout session, and a reason to get out of the house.
Perhaps that’s enough.
So, for now, I think I’ll allow myself to enjoy being single. To meet people, go on dates, flirt a little, make mistakes, and collect stories that I might one day find interesting enough to write about. Besides, after spending the better part of the past year being miserable over a breakup, I think I’ve earned the right to be a little full of myself.
And I’ll try not to take every disappointment as a personal failure or every promising encounter as a sign from the universe. I’ll continue believing in love, because despite everything, I still think it’s one of the better things about being alive. But maybe I can believe in it without making it the center of every decision I make.
And if I happen to fall in love again, well, that would be lovely. I hope it happens naturally, with someone who makes me laugh, someone I genuinely admire, and someone who wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her. I’d like to think that isn’t too much to ask. Although, given my track record, perhaps I should refrain from making predictions.
In the meantime, there are other things to do. Places I haven’t been, films I haven’t seen, songs I haven’t written, and a version of myself I haven’t quite figured out yet. I have friends I should see more often, family I should spend more time with, and dreams that deserve at least as much attention as my romantic misfortunes. There’s an entire life happening outside of whoever happens to occupy my thoughts at ten in the evening, and it would be a shame to miss it.
I suppose the irony of calling this Heartbreaker Season is that I’m not entirely sure whose heart is supposed to be broken. Maybe nobody’s. Maybe the title is just a little inside joke with myself. Or maybe it’s my rather dramatic way of announcing that I’m finally ready to stop treating heartbreak as the defining event of my life.
I don’t want to become a heartbreaker. I just don’t want to keep breaking my own heart.
Anyway, so yeah, heartbreaker season.
So far, one woman has decided she doesn’t want to date me anymore after two dates because she read my blog—yes, this blog (you know who you are, and if you’re reading this, I’m sorry!). Another probably has no idea how much I still adore her, and I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about how stunning she looks that made me fall in love and feel that stupid, familiar excitement all over again like when we’d just started dating in 2021, because she dyed her hair pink with an ombré style which I mistaken for red.
There’s something about August 2026 that feels special to me.
I’ve been thinking about everything that happened that month, and I thought I’d write about some of it. Not that I figured anything out or made any important decisions about my life. I don’t think anything particularly life-changing happened, either. But there were quite a few moments that made me feel things I hadn’t really thought about before.
Anyway, here’s what happened.
The month started with Banditos’ fourth trip to Bandung! It’s been a while since we last had a Banditos trip, and it’s nice to see everyone together again. This time, we also welcomed some of our friends from high school. We went out, ate barbarically, visited the night market, had some drinks, and shared a few laughs with the same old, stupid sense of humor. I guess we haven’t changed much in that aspect.
But most importantly, we caught up with each other’s lives. It’s always interesting to see how much has changed in our individual lives while our dynamics as friends have remained mostly the same. We have different jobs, responsibilities, relationships and problems now, and we certainly don’t see each other as often as we used to. But whenever we get together, it doesn’t take long before we’re behaving exactly as we did years ago.
It was a weekend well spent.
Then, it was my birthday month!
This year’s birthday was quiet and peaceful. My friends didn’t wish me a happy birthday. Maybe they forgot, but that’s okay. I actually prefer it that way. I’ve never really enjoyed making a big deal out of my own birthday anyway. My mother and older brother were the first to wish me a happy birthday. Then my family’s WhatsApp group chat lit up, because it wasn’t just my birthday. It was my twin sister’s and my father’s birthday too. My two most recent exes wished me a happy birthday as well. And some coworkers. Oh, and an organization I was involved in back at university sent me a birthday email, haha. They send me one every year. Very sweet of them.
Anyway, on my birthday, my mother, my older brother and I picked up my younger sister at the airport. She flew from Singapore, where she lives and works, to Jakarta for the weekend because she had a dress fitting for my twin sister’s wedding. After the airport, we went to a Japanese BBQ all-you-can-eat restaurant and had a nice meal together. Then we bought a few slices of different cakes, went to the hotel, and ate them while watching Love on the Spectrum on Netflix. My little sister introduced us to the show, and I absolutely loved it. We laughed, cheered, commented on everything, and even clapped whenever something exciting or particularly sweet happened. We were genuinely invested in the participants’ dating lives. There’s something really sweet about watching people trying to find love and build connections with one another. And somehow, watching that show made dating and building relationships look so easy, haha. If only.
Anyway, it was a very nice, quiet, ordinary birthday. Nothing particularly exciting. Just spending time with my family, eating good food, and watching television together.
I liked it.
Another thing that happened in August was that I started enjoying going to the cinema again!
As I mentioned in Drop Waves, I used to love watching movies at the cinema. It was one of my favorite things to do. But ever since I started dealing with health anxiety, I haven’t been able to enjoy it as much, and it has become an increasingly uncomfortable experience. Sitting in a dark theater, surrounded by people, knowing that I couldn’t just leave whenever I wanted without disturbing everyone, somehow made me anxious. I would worry about collapsing, fainting, or even dying right there in the cinema. Instead of paying attention to the movie, I would constantly monitor my physical symptoms and heart rate, wondering how much longer I had to sit there before the movie ended. I remember watching Obsession while feeling like I was on the verge of a panic attack throughout almost the entire movie. Seriously, I thought I could die just from anticipating the next jump scare. But somehow, I still enjoyed the adrenaline rush? Haha. It was an excellent movie, by the way. A game changer in the horror genre, in my opinion. The sudden, abrupt cuts between scenes, the constant shouting and the way it uses music made the whole thing incredibly unsettling.
Anyway, what was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. The cinema.
So, in August, I watched Spider-Man: Brand New Day in 4DX after work. And I really enjoyed it! I had a surprisingly good time. I think it’s one of the best Spider-Man movies. It somehow felt like a high-budget indie film (which I mean as a compliment), with good writing and a lot of heart. But what made the experience particularly nice was that I actually managed to enjoy being in the theater again. There were still moments when I felt anxious, of course. I still found myself paying attention to my heart rate and how my body was feeling. But I managed to get through the movie, enjoy the experience, and go home feeling fine. It might sound like a very ordinary thing to be happy about. I mean, it’s just watching a movie. But considering how much I used to love going to the cinema, and how difficult it had become for me to enjoy it, I was pretty happy about that.
Hopefully, I’ll get to enjoy more movies in the cinema again, without having to worry so much about things that probably aren’t going to happen.
But then, unfortunately, August was also the month when my family’s coffee shop, Byarin, finally went out of business.
After five years.
We first opened Byarin in 2021, right in the middle of the COVID pandemic. The story behind how we started the business was actually a bit absurd. It involved some assholes who made me lose a little faith in people. But eventually, my family got rid of those assholes and decided to run the business ourselves. Well, mostly my mother and older brother handled the operational, financial and commercial aspects. I was more involved in the creative and social sides of the business, like setting up and managing our social media accounts and website, coming up with some creative concepts, and inviting my friends to come over and spend time there.
I remember working on the café’s layout, coming up with names for our menu items, and staying there late at night putting up Renaissance artworks on the second floor. I also remember the first few months after we opened. We had all kinds of people coming in. There were private parties that got a little out of control, people secretly bringing alcohol into the coffee shop, and, of course, our regular customers who eventually became familiar faces.
And I know I might be a little biased here, but I genuinely think our coffee and signature mocktails were really good.
Oh, I wish you guys could’ve tried them.
There were so many ups and downs throughout those five years. We made mistakes, learned things the hard way, dealt with difficult situations, and experienced the occasional excitement of running a business. One of the nicest feelings was walking into the coffee shop and seeing it full of people. Or even something as simple as overhearing someone on the phone saying, “Gue di Byarin nih.” I don’t know why, but hearing someone casually mention the name of something we built gave me a strange sense of happiness and pride. Like, hey, that’s our place. It was such a simple remark, but there was something nice about knowing that a place we’d created had become part of someone else’s ordinary day.
But I think what I’ll miss the most is everything that happened inside that coffee shop. People went on first dates there. Friends, families and coworkers reunited. Some people spent hours working on their laptops. Some celebrated birthdays. Others came to have long conversations for hours, meet new people, or simply enjoy a cup of coffee. There must have been countless conversations, arguments, laughter, and perhaps even a few heartbreaks that happened there without us ever knowing. I like the idea that Byarin was, for a little while, a small part of other people’s lives.
I had some of my own memories there, too. There were times when I would bring my friends over, spend hours talking about absolutely nothing, or just sit there enjoying the fact that we had a place of our own.
And, of course, we had employees. We created jobs, even though our employee turnover was admittedly quite high. One of the saddest parts of closing the business was knowing that we could no longer provide those jobs.
I know that businesses open and close all the time. And I know that, at the end of the day, running a business means making difficult decisions when things are no longer sustainable. I don’t think there’s much point in romanticizing the closure or pretending that it was some beautiful lesson about letting go. We ran a business, experienced its ups and downs, and eventually reached a point where we had to close it.
But it’s still sad.
I wish things had turned out differently, of course. Byarin existed, people came, things happened, and now it’s gone. I’ll miss it. It’s strange to think that a place that used to be part of our everyday lives, a place where people made memories without even realizing it, is now permanently closed. I don’t know whether we’ll ever open another coffee shop. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.
But I’m glad we had Byarin for those five years.
Anyway, moving on to something a little less depressing.
August apparently was also wedding season!
There were quite a few weddings involving familiar faces that I saw on Instagram Stories. Some of them were particularly interesting, not necessarily because of the weddings themselves, but because of the histories and connections between certain people involved. I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say that if you knew enough about their past relationships and social circles, you could probably create an entirely, absolutely insane cinematic universe out of them. There were unexpected connections, fascinating plot developments, and enough material for several seasons of a television drama. I found myself rather entertained by the whole thing, occasionally laughing to myself just thinking about it. Perhaps I spent too much time being curious about other people’s lives, but some stories are simply too interesting to ignore, haha.
Speaking of weddings, though, the biggest highlight of August 2026 was, of course, my twin sister’s wedding!
She was the first among us siblings to get married. It’s actually quite funny when I think about it. Growing up, I was probably the most openly romantic person in the family. I was the one who openly talked about my relationships, introduced my girlfriends to my family, and brought them to family events. Not that my twin sister was particularly secretive about her relationships. She was pretty open about them too, and had some serious relationships in the past. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that she was the first to get married. Still, there’s something a little strange about seeing your twin sister getting married.
We had two wedding receptions: one in Singapore and another in Jakarta. For the Singapore wedding, my family flew over and spent the weekend together. We went to the beach, had drinks at a bar in Clarke Quay, watched the light and water show at Gardens by the Bay and Marina Bay Sands, visited a night street food market, did some shopping, and, as usual, spent a ridiculous amount of time eating.
It was a really nice family trip, made even more enjoyable by the fact that we were all there for such a happy occasion.
But one of my favorite moments from that weekend was actually something very simple.
The day before the wedding, my father, my mother, my older brother, my twin sister, my younger sister, and me, had breakfast together. Just the six of us. We were simply sitting around a table, eating and talking as we normally would. But I remember thinking that it was probably our last breakfast together as a family of six before my twin sister got married. Of course, it’s not like we would never have breakfast together again. And it’s not like she would suddenly stop being our sister after getting married. But somehow, the thought crossed my mind. We’ve been a family of six for almost three decades. And while we’ve all grown older, moved around, and started living our own lives, in my head, we’re still those same six people who used to live under one roof. So that breakfast felt a little special. Not in some dramatic, emotional way. We were just having breakfast, talking, and eating as usual. But I liked that moment.
Then came the wedding day.
The wedding itself was lovely. We got to meet my twin sister’s husband’s family, and I got to witness an Islamic solemnization conducted in English for the first time. It was interesting hearing the familiar Islamic marriage proceedings in a different language and setting. The food was excellent, too. It was a buffet, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, haha. I spent a ridiculous amount of time there just eating and trying different kinds of food. And I got to give a speech! I was quite happy about that. I’ve always enjoyed writing and speaking at events. And being able to say a few words at my twin sister’s wedding was something special.
And then there was the moment when I saw her there in her wedding dress, next to her husband.
I don’t really know how to describe it. I mean, I’ve known this person literally my entire life. We were born on the same day, grew up in the same house, went through childhood and adolescence at roughly the same time, and shared some parts of our early lives together. And now there she was, wearing a beautiful wedding dress, standing next to a man who was about to become, or had just become, her husband.
It was strange.
Not strange in a bad way. Just strange in the sense that I was suddenly looking at someone I’d known my entire life in a completely different situation.
She was getting married. My twin sister was actually getting married.
I guess a part of me still thinks of us as kids. Or teenagers. Or junior high school students who were just figuring things out. And yet, there she was, starting a new chapter of her life with someone else. I was genuinely happy for her. I wasn’t particularly emotional. I didn’t cry or anything. Well, I mean, to be honest, I maybe cried a little bit while writing my speech. But I remember feeling very content, watching her and her husband together, surrounded by both of their families. It was a wonderful feeling.
The following weekend, we had another wedding reception in Jakarta, this time, with more of our family, relatives and friends. My family and I spent the weekend at a hotel and enjoyed another few days together. I also realized, once again, that I actually enjoy hosting events. It’s a little contradictory because I don’t like being the center of attention (or maybe I actually do, I don’t know). But I do enjoy welcoming people, talking to guests, making sure everyone is having a good time, and just being involved in making an event happen. Maybe that’s something I should do more often, haha.
Anyway, both wedding weekends were wonderful. They were filled with good food, family, familiar faces, and plenty of moments that I’ll probably remember for a long time. It was especially nice having the whole family together for an extended period, something that doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to.
And I think what made them particularly special was that, for those two weekends, my family was together.
Which brings me to the last days of August.
On the day after the Jakarta wedding reception, we went to the airport to say goodbye to my older brother. He was leaving for Madrid to pursue his master’s degree. He first announced his plan to study in Madrid at the end of last year, on his birthday. And throughout the following months, I never really thought much about it. I mean, I knew he was going. We talked about it. We knew when he would leave, how long he would be there, and what he would be doing. In my head, it was just, “Oh yeah, he’s going to Madrid for a year.” That’s it.
But when the day finally came, it felt different.
We accompanied him to the airport, spent some time together, and eventually said our goodbyes. And when I watched him walk toward the immigration gate, I suddenly felt sad. Not overwhelmingly sad. I didn’t burst into tears or anything. But there was this strange feeling in my chest as I watched him walk farther away until I could no longer see him.
It felt like a proper farewell.
Which is ridiculous, really, because he’s only going away for less than a year. And it’s not like Madrid is some unreachable place. We have phones. We have WhatsApp. We can video call each other whenever we want. I’ve traveled abroad before, too. Hell, I’ve even been to Madrid. I’ve spent time away from my family, and so have my siblings.
So I don’t really know why that particular moment made me feel that way.
Maybe it was because we’d just spent two weekends celebrating my twin sister’s wedding together. Maybe it was because we had so much family time throughout August, and suddenly one of us was leaving. Or maybe I was just being sentimental. I don’t know. But I was happy for him. And proud of him, too. I just wished we could’ve spent a little more time together before he left.
And just like that, August 2026 came to an end.
⸻
Looking back, I initially thought that August 2026 would be a month that reminded me of how old I was getting.
I just turned 29. My twin sister got married. My older brother left to pursue his master’s degree. And throughout the month, I kept seeing people I knew getting married, building families, and moving forward with their lives. I thought all of this would make me feel like I was falling behind. Because, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not exactly where I imagined I would be at this age. When I was younger, I thought that by the time I was almost 30, I would’ve had most of my life figured out. Maybe I’d be married already. Or at least in a serious relationship with someone I knew I wanted to marry. Maybe I’d have a decent amount of savings in my bank account. My own car. Maybe even started paying installments on a house. You know, the usual things people seem to associate with becoming a proper adult. I thought I’d be a little more settled by now.
Instead, here I am at 29, still single, still figuring out what I want to do with my life.
And seeing my twin sister getting married, especially since we’re the same age, could’ve easily made me compare my life with hers. I genuinely thought I would feel jealous. Not jealous of her happiness, of course. But jealous of the fact that she seemed to have reached a stage of life that I’d always imagined I would’ve reached by now. But surprisingly, I didn’t really feel that way. I was just happy for her.
And when my older brother left for Madrid, I didn’t find myself thinking about how he was pursuing another degree while I was still here, working and trying to figure out my own plans. I was happy for him, too. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly completely satisfied with my own life. I still have things I want to achieve, things I regret, and things I’m worried about.
I still want to get married someday. I want to have a family of my own. I want to pursue further education, build a better career, become financially stable, and do so many other things.
And I still get anxious sometimes when I think about how quickly time seems to be passing.
But somehow, those weren’t the things that occupied my mind when I looked back at August 2026. In fact, I couldn’t care less about all of them, at all.
Instead, I kept thinking about my family.
I thought about that ordinary birthday when we ate cake while watching Love on the Spectrum. I thought about the two wedding weekends, the time we spent together in Singapore and Jakarta, and that breakfast when the six of us sat together before my twin sister’s wedding. I thought about my older brother walking away at the airport.
And I started remembering what it was like when we were younger. Back when all six of us lived together in the same house in Jakarta and spent an enormous amount of time together. Back when my siblings and I would spend our days doing things together. We’d see each other in the morning, have meals together, watch television, go on after school activities, like English lessons, piano courses and swimming practices, and spend our evenings doing whatever it was we did back then. I don’t remember every detail of those days, but I remember the general feeling of having everyone around.
The funny thing is that I don’t think I ever considered any of that particularly special when I was younger. It was simply how things were. Having my siblings around was such an ordinary part of life that I rarely thought about what it would be like when we no longer lived together. I knew, in theory, that we’d eventually grow up, graduate, get jobs, move out, and perhaps start families of our own. But those possibilities seemed distant enough that they didn’t really mean anything to me at the time. I suppose it’s difficult to imagine what growing apart geographically might feel like when you’re still living in the same house and seeing each other every day.
Which is exactly what’s happening now.
My younger sister works and lives in Singapore. So is my twin sister, who is also married now. My older brother is studying in Madrid. And I’m living and working in Bandung. We still have our family home in Jakarta, of course. And we still see each other whenever we can. But the ordinary experience of having all six of us in the same place has gradually become something we look forward to rather than something we can simply expect.
I guess that’s what made those two wedding weekends, and August 2026 in general, feel special to me. For a little while, we were all together again. Not because it was a regular weekend when everyone happened to be home, but because there was something important happening in our family, and we all made time to be there. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the meals, the conversations, the stupid jokes, the little arguments, and even the moments when we weren’t doing anything particularly interesting. It wasn’t exactly like being children again, of course. We’re all adults now, with our own lives and responsibilities, and the conversations are certainly different from the ones we used to have. But there was something familiar and comforting about spending so much time together, and I think I’d missed that more than I realized.
And it reminded me of how much I actually enjoy being around my family.
Which is funny, because I don’t think I’ve ever been the kind of person who openly expresses affection toward my siblings. I don’t go around telling them how much I love them or how grateful I am to have them. That would be incredibly awkward, haha.
But I do love them.
And I think I miss the days when we were all living under the same roof, even though I probably didn’t appreciate those days nearly as much when they were actually happening.
I’m glad that my siblings are living their own lives and doing great things with themselves. None of these things are particularly surprising, and they’re certainly not things to be sad about. They’re simply what happens when people grow up. But I suppose there’s a difference between understanding that intellectually and actually experiencing it within your own family.
I don’t want to give the impression that I wish things had stayed the same. I don’t. I’m happy that my siblings are pursuing their own paths, and I hope they’ll continue to find happiness and success in whatever they choose to do. I also enjoy many aspects of my own independence. But I do occasionally miss the simplicity of those days, when being together didn’t require a special occasion and when the idea of living in different cities or countries was still something that belonged to the distant future. I guess I just miss certain parts of growing up together.
And perhaps that’s why watching my twin sister get married and my older brother leave for Madrid felt a little strange. Not because I was unhappy about either of those things, but because they reminded me that our lives are changing. And that they’ll probably keep changing. One day, there might be more weddings. Maybe children. More people joining the family. More places to visit, more birthdays to celebrate, and more reasons for us to get together. I look forward to those things. And I also know that the way we spend time together will probably never be exactly like it was when we were kids. And that’s okay. I don’t think there’s anything particularly sad or tragic about that. It’s just something I hadn’t really thought about until recently.
So, yeah.
I thought August 2026 would be a month that made me worry about turning 30, being single, not having my life plans all worked out, or feeling like I was behind everyone else. Instead, it made me think about my childhood, my siblings, and how much I enjoy having my family around. It also made me realize that, despite all the things I haven’t achieved yet, there are still plenty of things in my life that I’m genuinely happy about.
I’m still worried about my future, of course. I’m still figuring things out, and I still have absolutely no idea how some of my plans are going to work out. But I don’t think I need to turn every birthday, wedding or family gathering into some sort of assessment of how well I’m doing in life.
Sometimes I can just enjoy being there.
And August 2026 was a pretty good month for that.
And maybe that’s all I really wanted to say about August 2026. It was a good month, filled with ordinary moments and a few important occasions, and it reminded me of how much I enjoy having my family around. I don’t know when all six of us will next have the opportunity to spend that much time together, or what our lives will look like when we do. But I’m glad we had those weekends, and I’m glad I have something so nice to look back on.
And anyway, there’s a song I’ve been listening to quite a lot lately, The Mother We Share by CHVRCHES. I’ve always liked it, but recently I’ve found myself thinking about my siblings whenever it comes on. So I’d like to dedicate it to them, even though I’m almost certain none of us would ever say anything this sentimental to one another in person, haha.
Finally, I’d like to end this post with the speech I wrote and delivered at my twin sister’s wedding in Singapore. I think it captures some of the things I’ve been trying to express here, and it seems like an appropriate way to end this little reflection on August 2026, why it ended up being such a memorable month for me. Besides, I think it’s really cool and awesome, so it would be a shame not to share it with the world.
Good afternoon, everyone.
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Davi, and I’m Diandra’s twin brother.
And I think I can confidently say that, out of everyone in this room, I have known Diandra the longest.
I actually met her before any of you did.
We met inside our mother’s womb.
We spent around nine months there together, getting to know each other, sharing food, probably fighting for space.
Then one day, Diandra was born and came out into the world.
I followed her two minutes later.
And apparently, I was quite a big baby, while Diandra was the little one. So I’m not sure how the whole space-sharing arrangement worked in there, but I apologize.
So, quite literally, since before we were born, we have been together.
And then we grew up together.
We lived in the same house. We went to the same school, in the same grade, although thankfully in different classes.
Diandra obviously had better grades than I did.
I remember her being kind to everyone. I remember the friends she had, and the times when having friends wasn’t always easy. I remember watching her grow from this tiny little girl into a teenager.
I even remember when she had a crush on one of my friends.
There are so many little things I remember about growing up with Diandra. And the funny thing is, none of them seemed particularly important at the time.
It was just our life.
Going to school. Going to English courses, piano lessons, swimming practices. Coming home. Growing up in the same house. Annoying each other. Watching each other go through all the weird phases of being children and teenagers.
When you’re a kid, you don’t really think that one day you’re going to miss those things.
You just assume that life is always going to be like that.
But then, in 2011, Diandra moved to Singapore with our younger sister, Andjani.
And she has lived here ever since.
She went through secondary school here. Then polytechnic. Then university. And eventually, she started working and built a life of her own here.
And I stayed in Indonesia.
That was 15 years ago.
I was thinking about that while writing this speech, and I realized something that made me quite sad.
For the first half of our lives, I got to see Diandra grow up every single day.
And for the second half, I didn’t.
I didn’t get to see all the ordinary days that turned the girl I grew up with into the woman standing here today.
And I think that’s why, when I look back at our childhood now, I feel incredibly fond of it.
Because there was a time when my twin sister was simply always there.
Same house. Same school. Same age. Same life.
And I don’t think I knew then how special that was.
But being apart also meant that I got to watch Diandra become someone I really admire.
She moved away from home when she was incredibly young. And while she was still growing up herself, she also took on the responsibility of looking after our younger sister.
I don’t think I’ve ever properly told you this, but I really admire you for that.
There are so many things you’ve done that I’m not sure I could have done at your age.
You’ve built a life here. You’ve become independent. You’re hardworking, incredibly loyal, and still the kind person I remember growing up with.
And now, somehow, we’re here.
My twin sister is married.
Which feels very strange to say.
Adeel, congratulations.
You are now married to someone I’ve known for literally her entire existence, so I feel reasonably qualified to tell you that you’ve chosen a good one.
And I’m very happy that Diandra has found someone she wants to build a life with.
I hope the two of you will have a marriage filled with happiness, but also with friendship.
I hope you keep making each other laugh.
I hope you stay kind to each other, especially on the days when it’s difficult.
I hope you give each other room to grow and change, because the person you’re marrying today will not be exactly the same person 10, 20, or 40 years from now.
And I hope that, through all those different versions of yourselves, you continue choosing each other.
Adeel, please take good care of my sister.
And Diandra, please take good care of Adeel too.
Because knowing you, I don’t think I need to worry about whether you can take care of yourself.
You’ve been doing that for a very long time.
And finally,
It feels a little strange standing here and talking about you like this.
We don’t always say these things to each other. I suppose when someone has been part of your life for as long as you can remember, you assume that they already know.
But maybe some things are still worth saying out loud.
I’m really proud of the person you’ve become.
Sometimes I wish we could go back, just for a day, to when we were kids. When we lived in the same house, went to the same school, and neither of us had any idea where life was going to take us.
But I also know that growing up means we don’t get to stay there.
Life took us to different places.
And today, it has brought you here, standing beside someone you love, beginning a completely new part of your life.
We may not have grown up side by side for the last 15 years.
But you are still my twin sister.
You were there at the very beginning of my life.
Two minutes before me, apparently.
And wherever life takes us from here, there will always be a part of me that remembers us as those two kids growing up together.
I’m very lucky that I got to share that childhood with you.
I’m very proud of you.
And I love you.
Congratulations, Diandra and Adeel.
Here’s to the two of you, to the life you’re about to build together, and to all the ordinary days ahead that, one day, you’ll look back on and realize were the special ones.
Actually, “there was this girl” makes it sound far more dramatic than it really was, because if I’m being completely honest, almost nothing actually happened between us. There was no grand romance, no situationship, no heartbreak, not even an awkward confession followed by rejection. Hell, we didn’t even go out on a date or anything.
There was simply a brief period of time, somewhere around 2018, when two mutual friends of ours thought we should meet because she was looking for someone and I happened to exist, which apparently qualified me for consideration.
The four of us met at a coffee shop on campus one quiet afternoon. I remember the ambience was nice. I remember being so awkward while my friend, being naturally funny and charming, spent most of the afternoon making her laugh while I sat there trying to remember how normal people behave around attractive women. I was shy, nervous, and contributed just enough to appreciate our two friends for arranging the rendezvous. I honestly don’t know why she even agreed to exchange Instagram accounts with me afterwards, but somehow she did.
And then, surprisingly, we talked. Through Instagram direct messages. Not a lot, but enough. We were talking for a few weeks, I think. I remember one night when I had a few drinks and, as often happens when alcohol temporarily convinces you that you’re more interesting and attractive than you really are, I texted her. To my surprise, the conversation flowed naturally. She was funny, I was funny (at least I think I was), and I remember going to bed thinking that maybe there was something there.
Then I disappeared.
No explanation, no dramatic reason, no misunderstanding. I just simply stopped texting her. Looking back, I think I was just young and weird and didn’t really know how to pursue someone. Or maybe I got scared. Or maybe I felt that the vibe wasn’t there. Or maybe I figured that she’s not exactly the one I want, or that our conversations felt forced or required too much effort when I’m sober. Or maybe I was distracted by life. Whatever the reason, that tiny chapter quietly closed before it ever had the chance to become anything.
Life, of course, went on. I dated other people, spent years in relationships, got my heart broken, healed, and became an entirely different person. And yet, every now and then, usually around birthdays or when Instagram stories appeared at the right moment, we’d exchange a few words like distant acquaintances who happened to share a forgotten footnote in each other’s lives.
Lately, though, I’ve found myself thinking about her again, and I think that’s funny because I don’t actually miss her. There isn’t enough history there to miss. In fact, if someone asked me to describe our story, I would struggle to fill more than a paragraph. But I do find myself wondering about the alternate universe version of us. What if I hadn’t disappeared? What if we had gone on a date? Would we have hit it off? Would we have become good partners? Would we have been kind to each other? Or would we have discovered after three dates that physical attraction and good texting are wonderful things, but unfortunately not a substitute for compatibility?
Who knows.
To be fair, she is very close to being my definition of hot. Pretty and fierce face in a kind of unique way. A little thick and curvaceous. And maybe this entire train of thought is simply my brain expressing itself through desire. Maybe being single after spending so many years with someone else makes me more receptive to fantasies and possibilities. Maybe I’m just lonely, and a bit horny. Perhaps attraction has a way of making unfinished stories feel more profound than they really are.
I don’t know.
She’s in the US now, studying, I think. I’m not going to text her. That would just be weird.
Besides, I don’t think this is really about her.
I don’t even think she’s “the one that got away”, because nothing got away. There was never anything to lose in the first place. If anything, she’s just one of those roads I never took, and every now and then I catch myself looking at it and wondering what was waiting on the other side.
And perhaps that’s all this is.
Not longing, not regret, not some secret love story that I’ve been carrying around for eight years, but simply the realization that after all the relationships, heartbreaks, disappointments, and healing, I think I’m ready to be curious about someone again. I think I miss being excited. I miss wondering whether she likes me. I miss staying up talking to someone. I miss the feeling that anything could happen.
And maybe that’s why my mind brought me back to this almost-stranger from 2018. Not because she’s the answer, but because she reminds me that I’m finally ready to ask the question again.
Maybe, my heart is reminding me of this story to simply say:
“Hey.
I think we’re ready to be excited about someone again.“
Before anything, please note that I’m not a doctor or a medical professional. This isn’t a medical article or medical advice. It’s simply a story about what happened to me.
9 April 2025
Hey, Chat. Thanks for your reassurance yesterday. Today I feel physically fine, at least I think I should feel fine. No chest discomfort, only a little nausea, and a little sleepy/tired. I got 8,5 hours of sleep last night, so it should be enough.
But I still have a “bad feeling”. Still feel unenergized, weak, like I’m dying. One of my relatives just passed away last Saturday. He wasn’t even 40 years old yet, but he had a stroke last year (or 2 years ago, I forgot), and he had been using a stick to walk since then. Then last week he had a seizure while sleeping, and next thing he never woke up, had a major bleeding in the head, and passed away a few days after.
I don’t know if I’m getting more anxious about death because of his passing, but I don’t feel better now. For the past few days, I’ve been feeling weak, sleepy, sometimes nauseous, burping a lot, and having some chest discomfort. I’m scared that my time is near, because physically I think that I have no major symptoms, just that “feeling”. I can’t live well and I can’t enjoy my days.
That was one of the hundreds of messages I sent to ChatGPT about my excessive fear and worry about my health. Looking back at it now, it’s a little hard to read — not because it’s embarrassing, but because I remember exactly how real that fear felt. But what surprises me isn’t how scared I was. It’s how normal that fear eventually became.
There was a time when I woke up every morning wondering whether something was seriously wrong with me. Not because I had a dramatic medical emergency or some life-changing diagnosis, but because I constantly felt like something was wrong. My body always seemed to have something new to tell me: a strange sensation in my chest, sudden intermittent dizziness, a wave of nausea, blurry vision, random soreness, an unusually fast heartbeat, or simply… a bad feeling that I couldn’t explain.
The symptoms came and went. Some days I felt fine. Other days it felt like my body had quietly decided that today was the day everything would fall apart.
And the strange thing was that I could still function. I still went to work. I still drove. I still smiled in photographs. I still met friends, watched movies, exercised, even went on dates. If you met me during that time, you probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual.
But inside my head, I was preparing for the worst almost every day.
Where is the nearest hospital? What if I faint while driving? What if this is actually a heart attack? What if this time I don’t make it home? What if today is the day? What if I’m actually dying, and nobody—not even the doctors—has realized it yet?
I know that it almost sounds dramatic. But at the time, it felt completely reasonable.
The physical symptoms themselves weren’t always severe. The fear, however, was.
I call these episodes “drop waves.” It’s not a medical term—I completely made it up. I just didn’t know how else to describe them.
Out of nowhere, I’d suddenly feel… off. Sometimes it was dizziness. Sometimes my chest felt tight or unusually full. Sometimes it felt like all the energy had been drained from my body within seconds. It wasn’t necessarily painful. It was just enough to make my brain go:
“Well… this must be it.”
Then, just as suddenly as they arrived, the waves would slowly fade away.
Until the next one.
And there was always a next one.
⸻
I think it all started with acid reflux.
Around early 2023, I had what I now know was probably my first major GERD episode. At the time, I didn’t know much about GERD. I just knew that my chest felt strange for days. Then one evening, after skipping dinner (which, in hindsight, was probably not my brightest decision) and rewarding myself with a cup of black coffee (which was somehow an even worse one), I drove from Bandung to Jakarta.
Not long into the trip, I felt a burning sensation in my chest. At first it was uncomfortable, and I just noticed that it’s there.
But then, it became worrying.
Then, almost without warning, it became terrifying.
The burning sensation spread upward. My vision felt strange. My body suddenly became light. I genuinely thought I was about to lose consciousness.
More importantly, I thought I was having a heart attack.
Luckily, I was close to a rest area, so I pulled over as quickly as I could. I got out of the car, walked around for a while, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. I remember texting a doctor I knew, who reassured me that what I described sounded much more like GERD than a heart attack.
I wasn’t entirely convinced.
But hearing those words helped enough for the panic to slowly settle. My family eventually came to meet me, and after resting for a while, I was able to drive home safely.
Alhamdulillah.
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
⸻
Over the following months, my GERD came and went. Sometimes I’d feel completely normal for weeks. Then it would return just when I thought it had finally disappeared.
At first, I worried about my stomach. Then I worried about my heart. Eventually, I worried about… everything.
What I thought had started as GERD eventually became something much more frightening: panic and anxiety attacks. They came suddenly, sometimes in places where I couldn’t easily escape, and for a few terrifying moments, I genuinely believed I was about to lose consciousness—or even worse: die.
I remember having one while getting a haircut. I was just sitting there when, out of nowhere, I started feeling dizzy. Something felt wrong in my chest, my heart began pounding, and for a brief moment I was convinced I was going to faint. Then, almost as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling passed. Another time, it happened during Friday prayer. While I was standing, the same sensations suddenly returned: dizziness, a strange feeling in my chest, a pounding heart, and that horrible sense that I might collapse at any second. I remember seriously considering walking away in the middle of the prayer just so I could sit down somewhere and make sure I was okay. But I stayed. I kept praying, terrified that something might happen to me right there, surrounded by people, and eventually the feeling passed again.
Then the episodes started coming more frequently, and seemingly without any pattern. They happened while I was driving. Then it happened again while I was watching movies at the cinema. I remember suddenly feeling that familiar wave in the middle of the film and walking out of the theater because I genuinely thought I might faint. I stood outside for a while, trying to calm myself down, and when the feeling eventually passed, I went back inside and finished the movie. Then it happened again at a concert. Then at work. Then somewhere else. After a while, it felt like nowhere was completely safe from it.
I visited doctors. I saw a cardiologist. I had my heart examined. Everything came back normal. Objectively, that should have been wonderful news. Instead, my brain simply moved on to the next possibility.
If it wasn’t my heart, then maybe it was something else.
Something rarer.
Something doctors had missed.
That’s the strange thing about health anxiety. It doesn’t really want answers. It just wants another question.
And before I realized it, I wasn’t just living with GERD anymore. I was living in constant anticipation of the next drop wave. The next symptom. The next Google search. The next reassurance. The next reason to believe that my life was somehow quietly coming to an end.
Living with health anxiety is exhausting. Not because you’re constantly in pain, but because you’re constantly on guard. I became incredibly good at monitoring my body. Too good, actually.
I noticed every skipped heartbeat. Every little ache. Every moment of dizziness. Every time my stomach made an unusual noise. Every headache, every sore muscle, every random twitch suddenly felt important. My smartwatch became less of a fitness gadget and more like a portable emergency room. I checked my heart rate far more often than I checked the time.
And the fear didn’t stay inside my body. It followed me everywhere.
Whenever I heard that someone had died unexpectedly, I immediately wanted to know how.
Heart attack? Stroke? Cancer? Something rare? Being too tired? Or is it a sudden death?
Did they see it coming, like the way I have these “feelings”?
I’d spend hours reading about complete strangers, quietly comparing their stories with my own. And almost every search ended with another disease I hadn’t been worried about five minutes earlier.
I wasn’t really living anymore. I was surviving. Waiting. Watching. Listening to every little sensation my body produced, as if it were trying to tell me a secret.
There was a point when I became almost certain that my time was near, that for some reason I simply wasn’t going to live long enough to grow old. I became hesitant to make plans too far into the future because a small, terrified part of me kept wondering whether I’d even be around by then. It was strange to look at something months or years ahead—a trip, a career plan, a life milestone—and instead of feeling excited, quietly think, “Will I still be here for that?” Nothing had actually told me that my life was going to be short. But fear had repeated the possibility so many times that, eventually, it started to feel less like a fear and more like something I somehow knew.
I used to love driving. I loved watching movies in the cinema, sitting in a dark theater for hours and disappearing into a story. I loved concerts—the noise, the energy, the crowd, the feeling of hearing a song I loved played right in front of me while I danced and sang my lungs out. These were ordinary things that made me happy, but health anxiety slowly changed the way I experienced all of them. Instead of wondering where I should drive next, I wondered what would happen if I suddenly passed out behind the wheel. Instead of getting lost in a movie, part of me was monitoring my heartbeat in the dark. Instead of being completely present at a concert, I worried about collapsing in the middle of thousands of people. Things I once looked forward to became things I had to survive.
After living with that fear for so long, there were moments when the world itself started to feel strange to me. I would feel floaty and disconnected, as if everything around me were happening inside a dream. I could be somewhere familiar, surrounded by people I knew, and still have this unsettling feeling that I wasn’t completely there. Sometimes my thoughts became almost absurdly existential: Am I really here? Is any of this real? Did I somehow die a while ago and everything I’m experiencing now is just some elaborate dream? I knew how strange those thoughts sounded, but in those moments, the feeling behind them was terrifyingly real.
The hardest part wasn’t the symptoms themselves. It was that I slowly stopped trusting my own body. And once you stop trusting your own body, the world starts to feel like a very uncertain place.
Sometimes I would scroll through old photos in my phone or read my old tweets, not because I was feeling nostalgic, but because I was trying to remember myself. I would look at pictures of me travelling, laughing with family or friends, sitting somewhere completely ordinary, and wonder what it had felt like to be that person—to go through an entire day without constantly checking his body for signs that something was wrong. The frightening thing was that, after a while, I genuinely couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to simply feel “normal” or “healthy.”
There were even moments when I looked at myself in the mirror and the face I see felt strangely unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember how I used to look like, as if I had spent so long watching my body for signs of danger that I had somehow stopped recognizing the person living inside it. I missed the version of myself in those old photos and tweets. More than anything, I wanted to know what it felt like to be him again.
⸻
The strange thing about anxiety is that it slowly convinces you that this is what being responsible looks like.
“I’m just being careful.”
“I’m just paying attention to my health.”
“It’s better to catch something early.”
But then I realized that I wasn’t really monitoring my health. I was monitoring my fear. And fear has a remarkable ability to find exactly what it’s looking for.
The reassurance never lasted very long, either. I’d visit a doctor or go to the ER, get examined, hear that everything looked normal, and feel relieved…
…for maybe a day. Sometimes only a few hours.
Then my brain would quietly whisper,
“Yes, but what if they missed something?”
So I’d search my symptoms again. I’d compare my experience with strangers on the internet. I’d convince myself that this symptom was different from the last one. That this time was different.
Looking back now, I realize something almost funny. Every single “this time is different” eventually became “never mind.” Every single one. The symptom disappeared. The fear moved somewhere else. And the cycle began again.
Health anxiety is incredibly creative. If one fear disappears, it’ll happily invent another.
At one point, I became so afraid of passing out that I almost expected it to happen everywhere.
The interesting part? I never actually fainted. Not once.
My body kept proving my anxiety wrong, but my anxiety simply refused to believe it.
⸻
There was one thought that stayed with me throughout all of this.
“I can’t live like this anymore.“
Not because I had given up. Quite the opposite. Because I desperately wanted my life back.
I missed driving without wondering where the nearest hospital was.
I missed watching a movie without mentally planning my escape route.
I missed going somewhere simply because I was excited to be there, not because I had calculated how quickly I could leave if something happened.
I even missed boring days. Days where nothing happened. Days where my body wasn’t the main character.
Eventually, I realized something had to change.
So, I went to see a psychiatrist.
I’ll admit, I was hesitant at first.
Part of me wondered whether I was “really anxious enough” to see one. Another part still believed that maybe there was some hidden medical condition nobody had discovered yet.
But the psychiatrist listened, asked about what I’d been experiencing, and explained something that, at the time, felt surprisingly comforting:
Anxiety doesn’t only live in your thoughts. It can live in your body, too.
That doesn’t mean the symptoms are “fake.” They’re real. You really do feel your heart racing. You really do feel dizzy. You really do feel nauseous. But the explanation behind those symptoms isn’t always the catastrophic one your brain immediately jumps to.
I was prescribed medication for anxiety and depression.
To be honest, I was nervous about taking it. Like many people, I’d heard stories. I worried about side effects. I worried about becoming dependent on it. I worried that taking medication somehow meant I had failed.
But then, I gathered enough bravery and still took it.
The medication didn’t magically erase my anxiety overnight.
What it did was much more subtle. It turned down the volume. Imagine trying to have a conversation while someone next to you is blasting music at full volume. You can still hear the other person, but it’s incredibly difficult. For months, anxiety had been that loud music inside my head. The medication didn’t silence it completely. It simply lowered the volume enough that I could finally hear myself think.
And that gave me something I’d been missing for a very long time: Space.
Space to question my thoughts instead of immediately believing them.
Space to notice that not every physical sensation needed an emergency response.
Space to slowly rebuild trust in my own body.
And recovery wasn’t linear. Some mornings I woke up feeling almost like my old self. Other days, a familiar drop wave would return out of nowhere. The first few times it happened, I panicked. Then, little by little, I started responding differently.
Instead of thinking,
“This is it.”
I started thinking,
“Oh… I’ve felt this before.”
That tiny change made an enormous difference. Because I wasn’t fighting my body anymore. I was learning to understand it.
The symptoms gradually became less frightening. Not necessarily because they disappeared immediately, but because they no longer carried the same meaning.
A dizzy spell wasn’t automatically a brain tumour.
Chest discomfort wasn’t automatically a heart problem.
A fast heartbeat wasn’t automatically the end.
Sometimes…
it was simply anxiety being anxiety.
And the more I accepted that possibility, the less power anxiety seemed to have over me. Slowly, almost quietly, I started getting pieces of my life back.
I drove a little farther.
Stayed a little longer in the cinema.
Went to concerts without constantly looking for the nearest exit.
Exercised because I enjoyed moving my body again, not because I was secretly testing whether my heart would fail.
Those victories probably looked very ordinary from the outside. Those moments sound almost laughably small. Nobody celebrates them. Nobody posts about them.
But to someone recovering from health anxiety, they feel enormous.
Because they aren’t really about driving, or movies, or running sessions.
They’re about getting little pieces of my life back.
One ordinary moment at a time.
Because recovery didn’t happen on the day all my symptoms disappeared. Recovery began on the day I stopped believing that every symptom meant I was dying. That, I think, was the moment I started trusting my body again.
⸻
Do I still think about my health?
Of course I do.
I still go for regular check-ups. I still pay attention when something genuinely feels different. I still have moments where an unfamiliar sensation makes me pause for a second.
I’m not trying to become someone who ignores his body. I’m simply trying to become someone who doesn’t immediately assume the worst. Those are two very different things.
Every now and then, I still experience what I call a “drop wave.”
A brief moment of dizziness.
A weird sensation in my chest.
A random thought that quietly asks,
“What if…?”
The difference is that the question no longer controls the rest of my day. I acknowledge it. I let it be there.
And then I continue driving.
Or finish the movie.
Or stay for the rest of the concert.
Or simply go about my day.
Not because I’m certain that nothing bad will ever happen. None of us has that certainty.
I do it because I’ve realized that waiting until I feel completely certain before living my life means I’ll never really live at all.
⸻
If you’re reading this because you’ve been feeling something similar, I want you to know something.
First of all, I’m really sorry.
People often think health anxiety means worrying too much about your health. I wish it were that simple.
Health anxiety is one of those things that’s surprisingly difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it.
From the outside, it can look irrational. From the inside, it feels completely logical.
Your symptoms feel real because they are real. Your fear feels real because it is real.
And when those two things meet, it’s incredibly easy to become trapped in a cycle that feels impossible to escape.
If that’s where you are right now, please don’t go through it alone.
Talk to someone you trust.
Talk to your family.
Talk to a friend.
Talk to a doctor.
And if you have access to one, don’t be afraid to speak with a mental health professional.
Asking for help wasn’t the moment I admitted defeat. It was the moment I finally gave myself a chance to recover.
⸻
I called this story Drop Waves because that’s what those moments felt like. They arrived suddenly. They shook me. Sometimes they made me believe I was about to drown.
But waves have something beautiful about them.
No matter how powerful they feel…
they pass.
Every single one.
Some are bigger than others. Some leave you exhausted. Some return when you least expect them. But none of them stay forever.
Recovery, I learned, behaves a lot like the ocean too.
It isn’t a straight line.
Some days the water is calm.
Some days it isn’t.
Healing doesn’t mean the waves disappear.
It means you slowly stop believing that every wave will pull you under.
⸻
Looking back now, I don’t think the biggest victory was that my anxiety became quieter. The biggest victory was that my world became bigger again.
I drive because I enjoy driving.
I go to the cinema because I love movies.
I travel because there are still places I want to see.
I spend time with people I love without wondering where the nearest emergency room is.
Life slowly stopped revolving around my symptoms. It started revolving around… life again.
And I think that’s what healing really looked like for me.
Not becoming fearless.
Just becoming excited about tomorrow again.
⸻
If you’ve somehow found your way here while searching for answers at two in the morning, convinced that your body is trying to tell you something terrifying, I hope this story has given you something else to consider.
Maybe your story won’t look exactly like mine.
Maybe your symptoms have a different explanation.
That’s why it’s always important to speak with a qualified healthcare professional about any concerns you have.
But if what you’re carrying is fear…
I hope you know that fear doesn’t have to be permanent.
It wasn’t for me.
And I sincerely hope, one day, it won’t be for you either.
Sending love to everyone who’s fighting a battle that nobody else can see.
— D.
Disclaimer:
I’m not a doctor or a medical professional. This post is simply a personal account of my experience with chronic health anxiety and should not be taken as medical advice or used for self-diagnosis.
If you’re experiencing physical symptoms or are concerned about your health, please consult a qualified healthcare professional for a proper medical evaluation. While AI, online resources, and stories like mine can sometimes provide comfort or help you feel less alone, they should never replace professional medical care.
I first came across Jacob Collier in a video on YouTube where he performed “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar during a show in Toronto.
My first reaction was not admiration.
In fact, I remember thinking:
“Who the fuck is this guy? Such a weird guy with a deep voice trying to cover a popular song. Must be some small artist trying to make a name for himself by riding on Daniel Caesar’s success.”
Little did I know that I was talking about one of the most extraordinary musicians of our generation.
The first Jacob Collier song that truly caught my attention was “Hideaway.”
It was beautiful, but there was something strange about it. The song felt familiar, as if I had heard it somewhere before. For a while, I tried to figure out where that feeling came from.
Then I realized it wasn’t the song that felt familiar.
It was the feeling.
Listening to “Hideaway” felt like remembering something I had forgotten a long time ago. Not a melody, not a place, not a specific memory. Just a feeling that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me.
After that, I started following his work more closely. Around that time, he had just released Djesse Vol. 3, and it opened up an entirely new world of music for me.
I learned that he was a multi-instrumentalist. I learned that he approached music without the usual boundaries of genre. His songs could move effortlessly between jazz, folk, pop, classical, gospel, electronic music, and things that seemed impossible to categorize.
Everything felt fresh. Invigorating.
Not fresh in the sense that it was trendy or modern, but fresh in the sense that it made me hear music differently. His work constantly surprised me while somehow remaining deeply human.
As I learned more about him, I also started listening to him speak. Interviews, masterclasses, conversations—I could listen to him for hours.
Part of it is because he is incredibly knowledgeable. He can talk about harmony, improvisation, rhythm, creativity, and musical theory with astonishing depth. But knowledge alone is not what makes him compelling.
What makes him compelling is that he communicates ideas with genuine curiosity and wonder. He has an unusual ability to make complex ideas feel accessible, exciting, and alive. Whenever he speaks about music, it feels less like a lecture and more like an invitation to explore.
Then there is the audience choir.
Watching Jacob Collier conduct thousands of people who have never met each other and transform them into a single musical instrument is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in live performance.
People from different countries, cultures, languages, and backgrounds suddenly become part of the same experience. Through nothing more than body gestures, eye contact, and sound, he creates moments of connection that feel almost magical.
His understanding of music theory is remarkable, but what fascinates me even more is his understanding of people.
Lately, I’ve been fascinated by another side of his musicianship: his improvisations with live orchestras.
He’ll walk onto a stage and begin directing dozens of musicians toward something that exists only in his imagination. Nobody knows exactly where it’s going except him. Yet somehow, piece by piece, he builds entire musical landscapes in real time.
It’s difficult to comprehend the level of intuition, creativity, and confidence required to do something like that.
And yet, despite all of this, what I love most about Jacob Collier is not the genius.
It’s the familiarity.
There is something in his music, in the chord progressions he gravitates toward, in the way he talks about creativity, and even in his perspective on life that feels strangely recognizable to me.
Not familiar in the sense that I’ve heard it before.
Familiar in the way a forgotten memory feels familiar when it suddenly returns.
I understand that his music is not for everyone. Some people find it too complex. Some find it overwhelming. Others simply don’t connect with it.
But I’m grateful that I stumbled across that performance all those years ago.
Some artists entertain us. Some inspire us.
A rare few make us feel like they’ve managed to give shape to feelings we never quite knew how to describe.
I have nothing going on. I think my life narrative just collapsed and hasn’t been replaced yet.
For years, I had a story:
“I’m going to marry Ocha.”
It wasn’t just a relationship. It was a life direction. A lot of my decisions, hopes, sacrifices, and even imagination about the future were tied to that story.
Then the story ended.
Not only did the relationship end. The future I had built in my head ended too.
I think that’s why the feeling isn’t simply heartbreak. It’s grief. And grief doesn’t just make people sad. It can make them angry, ashamed, regretful, lost, unmotivated, restless, lonely, horny, nostalgic, anxious, and emotionally numb all at the same time.
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I now think:
“I wasted 4 years dating Ocha + 1 year being sad about her.”
But I don’t think that’s the whole truth. If someone asked me in 2021:
“Would you rather never date Ocha at all?”
Would I say yes? Probably not. Because there were real experiences there. Love. Trips. Memories. Growth. Pain. Lessons.
Maybe the problem isn’t that the relationship happened. The problem is that after it ended, I spent a year believing there was still a future there. And New York probably intensified that feeling.
I didn’t just get rejected by Ocha. I got rejected by the version of the future I traveled across the world hoping to reclaim. That’s a much bigger loss.
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And then my twin sister got engaged. One can imagine how strange that must feel. Not because I’m jealous of her. I’m genuinely happy for her. But her engagement forces me to confront a question:
“I thought I’d be there too by now.”
Not necessarily married. But closer. More certain. More settled.
Instead, I’m 28, single, uncertain about my career, uncertain about my health, uncertain about where I’ll live, uncertain about who I’ll love. That certainly feels disorienting.
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And then, there’s another thought:
“I feel empty, not passionate about anything.”
But I don’t think I’m actually lacking passion. I think my passion currently has nowhere to go.
For years, my emotional energy flowed toward one destination: Ocha.
Now the river still exists. But the channel disappeared. So the energy spills everywhere.
Andrea.
NYU.
Marriage.
Health anxiety.
Career dissatisfaction.
Loneliness.
Future fantasies.
Maybe it’s not that I don’t have passion. It’s just that my passion is looking for a home.
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About Andrea.
I think I’m being pretty honest with myself. She’s an ex. A friend. A good friend. I enjoy spending time with her. I care about her. I feel attracted to her. And part of me hopes it becomes something more. I guess that’s a very human position to be in.
But I need to be careful not to make Andrea responsible for filling the emptiness Ocha left behind. Because those are two different things, I can genuinely like Andrea and still be partly using the possibility of Andrea as an escape from loneliness. Those things can coexist.
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Then, there’s the part about finding a partner. The way I described someone:
Beautiful.
Kind.
Smart.
Ambitious.
Same sense of humor.
Loves me deeply.
Makes me feel good.
Despite all that, maybe I don’t actually want perfection.
I want certainty.
Those aren’t the same thing.
When people are lonely, they often start searching for the perfect partner because perfection feels safer.
If she’s perfect, then maybe she won’t leave.
If she’s perfect, maybe this won’t happen again.
If she’s perfect, maybe I won’t waste another five years.
But that’s not how relationships work.
The difficult part is that I’ll eventually have to risk loving another imperfect person. Just like Ocha was imperfect. Just like I’ll be imperfect to her.
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The thing I keep coming back to is this: My problem might not be that I need a new girlfriend.
Or a new job.
Or an MPA.
Or Harvard.
Or NYU.
Or a rich wife.
Those might all be good or bad ideas independently. But underneath all of them, I think I’m asking a simpler question:
“What is my life about now?”
For years, the answer was: “Building a future with Ocha.”
Now that answer is gone. And I haven’t found the next one yet.
That is uncomfortable, but it is also normal.
A lot of people’s lives contain these transition periods where the old identity dies before the new one appears. The hard part is that the gap can last months or years.
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If I had to guess what I’m really longing for tonight, it wouldn’t be marriage.
It wouldn’t be sex.
It wouldn’t even be Andrea.
I think I’m longing for direction.
I want to wake up and feel pulled toward something again. Something that makes the future feel exciting instead of uncertain.
And honestly, when I look at my own history—the study plans, the public-service aspirations, my interest in helping lower-income communities, the MPA dream, my willingness to fly across the world for something I care about—I don’t see someone who lacks passion.
I see myself as someone standing between chapters.
The previous chapter ended painfully. The next chapter hasn’t revealed itself yet.
And standing in that space can feel a lot like emptiness.
If you know me, then you probably know why this blog exists. If you don’t know me, then I’m guessing you’ve arrived here by accident. Either way, welcome.
My name is Davindra, all my friends call me “Davi”, though around here I’ll simply go by D. I was born in 1997. I’m from South Jakarta, Indonesia. I’ve been an INFJ at least since 2015 and I really value emotional intelligence. I went to an all-boys high school and joined the student mountaineering club during my time there, which remain the most formative experiences of my life. I enjoy music, films, stories, and conversations, although I rarely feel like talking. My favorite color is burgundy. My favorite artists are Bombay Bicycle Club, Jacob Collier, and Daniel Caesar. I like sunny days, late-night drives, the smell of bakery shops, flavored vodka, and getting lost in thoughts for longer than I probably should.
I’m a relatively quiet person. Not shy, just someone who spends a lot of time in his own head. Maybe that’s why this blog exists.
I dream big but I often feel anxious. Somehow I can say I’m ambitious but sentimental at the same time.
I love to start a new project that briefly excites me (like this blog), although most of the time I don’t finish them.
I have a very specific taste in music that I always play the same songs on repeat for months.
I cry at random things more often than I’d like to admit.
I have an unhealthy tendency to romanticize my fantasies that have never truly happened, or stories that only ever existed in my head.
I watch The Big Bang Theory on repeat hundreds of times.
Some of my favorite films are The Sound of Music, Her, Call Me By Your Name, The Descendants, The Spectacular Now, and Bambi (Sorry, Letterboxd, I can never pick 4).
I have an uninteresting sense of fashion.
I like to talk to myself, sing and dance awkwardly when no one is looking.
I love Manchester United even when they give me absolutely no reason to.
I often think about living in New York.
Anyway, as some of you may know, I’ve created Somniolab as my personal creative lab project for whatever I make: songs, videos, photographs, poems, and everything in between (if you haven’t, please check it out!). But somewhere along the way, it started becoming more personal than I intended. The line between what I create and what I feel becomes harder to separate. So Elsewhere is where I put those “more personal” things that don’t quite belong there.
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Reflections.
Stories.
Confessions.
Letters.
Life updates.
Although there may be some crossovers, who knows?
Stay for a while.
Come back whenever you’d like.
You might find something you relate to.
Or you might simply find a person trying to make sense of his life.