Every time I came home, I’d learn something new about myself. Funny how it’s not the other way around.


That one week in Miri made me realise just how much I hate familiarity.  While I love being at home, I must admit I do feel suffocated at times.


It’s not being buggered by HaniPoko to play with her. Or having my mum lying next to me, telling me stories while I was asleep (like seriously, HOW TO SLEEP LIDDAT???).

Those moments, I enjoyed them tremendously.


It’s being in the same place I’ve been for the larger part of my life. It’s being thrown back into the same old routine, seeing the same faces. It’s to remember and reminisce. It’s everything and so much more.


Most people find comfort in familiarity. I find myself feeling vulnerable. I feel responsible to act out my part; to be the daughter, the granddaughter, the niece, the neighbour, the friend. Each step has to be thread on carefully, for each step is scrutinised.

I hate that.


Dad has always assumed I’d work in Miri. He has this thing about “serving our people”. But to me our people is the same everywhere. Whether they’re Sarawakians, or Johorians or Singaporeans, they’re the same. I bear each human equal responsibility. More towards Malaysians, because they paid for my education. Not because I happen to be its citizen.


Don’t get me wrong- I love home. It’s the place where I first learned to ride on a 2-wheel bicycle, the place where I first broke my mum’s flower pot. It’s where I spend my time day dreaming I was the yellow Power Ranger. Where Kak Us made a play house for us using coconut tree leaves.

It’s the place where I laughed the most, the place where I cried my heart out.


But now I’ve come to understand home isn’t where I was born at; home is where my heart and my family are. Nothing and no one else matters.


And I know my heart isn’t attached anywhere.