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Lucky Girl and a Clay Pot

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Lucky Girl and a Clay Pot

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My mother took the umbilical cord that once linked us and carefully washed it with her bare hands to ensure I would forever be tied to her. She then wrapped it in a pristine white cloth before placing it gently in a clay pot. She added scissors to ensure my mind remained sharp, a pen and paper so that my thoughts would benefit the world we lived in, and many other items that represented virtues she wanted for her first-born, her daughter. She sealed the clay pot tightly. Unlike the usual Javanese tradition, she did not bury the pot near our home to ensure that I stayed close. Instead, she paddled out to the ocean, the very same waters my father’s ashes were thrown in, and dropped the clay pot in the water. She waited, and every time it would come back, she’d paddle back out and place it even further. She did this multiple times before it eventually disappeared.

When asked why she didn’t do it the usual way, she said, “because I wanted you to see the world, I wanted you to do the things I dreamed of.”

Western folks would probably scoff at the idea that this would work, that this animistic nonsense has no logic or scientific proof that it could ever work. But all I have to do is see the glimmer in her eyes when I tell her my travel stories, the subtle excitement in her voice when I tell her the opportunities I have been blessed with abroad—see the deep sadness gently expressed by her furrowed eyebrows when I cry to her and question myself and believe that I have accomplished nothing, to know that it worked. That her deep belief in her dreams and the things she hoped for me caused miracles.

Mama leads her life with blind trust; this is all I’ve known. She never feared to voice her desires out loud, and I have never heard her say that anything was too big or too ludicrous. There is almost something childish about it. The crazy thing is that all of them became a reality, like magic. I grew up believing in magic because I witnessed it; she is magic. She made sure to pass down the spells to me too, and later on, I understood that she was “manifesting” before it was a term overly used by the spiritual gurus of Instagram.

It’s simple: picture what it is that I want clearly for a moment before letting go of it, never obsess, loosen the grip but keep it close, trust in it, and put in the work. One day, before you even know it, things will align, and it’ll all be yours.

The formula works without fail. She has always gotten what she wanted, and if anything, she’s the only person I know who has received everything she’s ever truly desired. But my mother is a simple woman. Never dazzled by things that shine too brightly. I’m certain she could have manifested extreme wealth, and I have no doubt it would somehow have landed right in her lap. Yet her manifestations are guided by clear intention, always centred on peace and abundance. For her, abundance includes the safety of her children in every sense of the word. The flashy things society tells us we should all want simply don’t align with the core of her desires. When I left the nest at 18 years old, leaving her for the first time, I deeply believe that this was the start of the manifestations of the clay pot coming true. I immediately saw the world and found myself being in the right place and at the right time a lot of the time, doors opening left and right offering me opportunities far beyond my initial wishes and dreams. The world handed me things constantly; I had been spoilt. Just like intended, we forever remained close, yet I was rarely home; something always came up and required me to be in another city. Even through hardships, I was shielded and protected, only finding myself in difficult positions to learn a lesson clearly presented as such. At least nothing felt like it happened just out of cruelty. As soon as I felt lost or alone, angels without wings were always present to help me up and to guide me, angels with whom I get to experience life with to this day.

I find that I move through the world with ease and quickly understand those who cross my path; the objects she had placed in the clay pot seem to have done what she intended them to do. I am only human, and I have made mistakes, but my intuition has always served me well; only moments where I have decided to ignore it have things gone wrong. Yet another gift that keeps on giving she has given me.

I’m unsure what I did in a previous life to be blessed with a wonderful mother, and I realise many aren’t as fortunate—it is not too late for you. The way mine showed up for me, I believe we can always do for ourselves. I will forever be her baby, but I owe it to her to stand on my own as much as I can. So, what she passed on to me, I intend to apply it to my life and hopefully to my own children one day. So much can happen simply by believing and leading life with intention. I’ll let the magic speak for itself and for you to experience it.

I didn’t know she had done the ritual before a few weeks ago; she had never mentioned it. As soon as I heard the story, everything made so much sense. I couldn’t understand how I was able to be this lucky, never lacking anything I needed for the most part. Like many, I didn’t always realise that I had been so lucky, clouded by other desires, always wanting more. Yet, she’d tell me time and time again: always practice gratitude. “You must always look down nduk and never look up, to realise how far we’ve come and not to be reminded of what we don’t have or don’t have yet.”

And this is me doing just that. 

Vahine Blaise, Los Angeles, United States, February 2026

Her Garden

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Her Garden

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Death has been a constant in my life. Unlike many my age, I have grieved many, many times—so many times, it is now a very familiar feeling. A constant reminder of how fragile life is, and, well, also an awful reminder that I have no idea what’s on the other side. Will a bearded man greet me with a warm smile, or perhaps will I land in hell where I’ll be forced to participate in orgies every single day as lava is poured all over my body, over and over again? Will I actually reincarnate as my granddaughter, or is it simply just a big ol’ void?

There’s nothing quite like grief—and it never really leaves you. When I hear that someone has died, it hits in the strangest way. At first, it’s like a tsunami—my emotions retreat quietly, draining from my body, leaving behind a heavy stillness. Then, all at once, they come crashing in: tears I can’t control, limbs that go numb. And just as suddenly, a strange calm settles in, like the eye of a storm. I stop feeling altogether. The cycle repeats until I’m wrung dry, exhausted, and hollow.

Once you’ve known grief, it never truly leaves. It lingers, settles in your bones, wraps itself around your heart, and stays. I sometimes imagine my skeleton draped in it, carrying the weight wherever I go. No matter how much time has passed since a loved one left this Earth, when they cross my mind, I feel that familiar wave: a deep sadness, a nostalgia I can’t shake. The realisation hits no matter how fiercely I miss them, I’ll never see them again. It’s like a slap to the face, softer with time, but still a slap all the same.

Death usually announces its presence in the form of a very distinctive, gut-wrenching scream—the one I heard my mum let out when my father drowned, the one she let out from the kitchen one morning before school when she was told over the phone that her brother didn’t beat cancer, or the one my uncle woke my cousins and me with in the middle of the night, when he noticed that my grandmother was no longer breathing. Every time I hear that specific scream, I know it’s here.

But sometimes, it comes very gently—a slight pinch in the heart when I say goodbye, not exactly knowing it’s the last time, but somehow I know it is and won’t accept or believe it’s going to happen. Like it was for my auntie Sasi.

I finally found the courage to fly to the U.S. after acquiring my work visa last April. My mother’s sister, whom I called Bude Sasi, had moved to the United States with her American husband and children many years ago. Not having seen her in years because she lived so far, this was the perfect occasion to see each other.

My auntie was like a walking sun—so warm. Her smile was bright, and her distinctive laugh filled any room. A laugh so powerful, so contagious—you couldn’t help but laugh with her. She had the type of timeless beauty, one that was regal almost, one you’d want to paint a portrait of. She felt so safe to me. Her voice soothed me every time she spoke. I like to think this is because she was actually the first person to ever hold me when I was born—the first to say my name to me.

My Bude Sasi had a pure heart—yes, it’s cliché, but she truly did, and you could ask anyone; no one would dare say anything negative about her. She was Good.

She was a crafty lady and loved to make things with her hands. One of my assignments as a child in school was to do a presentation on the process of paper, and part of it was recycled paper, so she showed me how to make paper maché, and I wound up with a perfect grade. She also was a wonderful and dedicated mother to two boys. Her first son was diagnosed with autism. As a child, he was a wonderful and extremely bright boy with too much love his little body could handle. He didn’t know what to do with all of it but express it with extremely tight hugs and thousands of kisses at once. Also hyperactive, he was all over the place. There were times I could see how exhausted she was, but never did she ever raise her hand on him or say things she would later regret.

She beat breast cancer once, and when I had my own scare and had to go get a biopsy, she made sure to be on the phone with me to let me know that it was all going to be okay—and she was right, all was okay. 

I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. We did keep contact, but I have always been so bad with calling my family members. But we would text and give each other updates. She would send me videos and photos of her garden, that she meticulously took care of. A garden filled with the most beautiful, bright colours—a reflection of her soul.

I hate to say this, but I was nervous to see her after so long. I feared that it would be awkward and that it wouldn’t be the same. The boys were so big now, and they probably didn’t really remember me. What if we had nothing to talk about and we just wound up having small talk? But it warmed my heart to hear how excited she sounded on the phone, and it made me feel even more terrible to feel this way. She offered to drive from Maryland to New York City because the Amtrak tickets were really expensive and I couldn’t afford them. She told me that she hoped she’d have the energy because her medication had been really tough on her. That’s when I found out that she had cancer again—and this time, it had spread.

I tried to keep it together on the phone and told her I was sure that she was going to be okay. I got off the phone and stared out the window, looking at the view of Turtle Bay, when my vision became blurry and the tears started to pour down my face. I sobbed and sobbed. I called my mum and asked her if she knew, and she told me she did and was sorry that she didn’t tell me—she just assumed I already did.

We were only able to finally see each other on my last day in New York. It was rainy and gloomy. I had trouble finding them—Times Square being so busy, like usual. But then there she was, with the same bright and warm smile. She could never be a stranger to me. How could she ever be?
She held my face in her hands—she couldn’t believe how much I had grown and how beautiful I had turned out. She looked radiant; no one could have ever guessed she was fighting cancer. Her familiar laugh instantly awakened the child that was resting inside me.

My uncle had not changed much at all—it’s like the two of them kept each other young.
However, my baby cousins had grown a whole lot. Those little toddlers were now young men with deep voices. The eldest, who once always used to hug me so very tight and never wanted to let go, now gave me a swift hug.

We decided on a Korean restaurant for lunch. She sat quietly in front of me as my uncle and cousins asked me questions about what I had been up to. She’d occasionally say some things, but she mainly sat there smiling and eating. The meal was a seafood stew and hot rice—warm and comforting for a cold day.

We walked around Times Square, under the rain. It was the first time I had been back since 2009, when I screeched out of excitement at the amount of limos there were, and felt pure euphoria entering the Toys R Us building—thinking that I finally knew what the American Dream was. We went into the M&M’s building, and I felt disappointed that I no longer felt the same excitement I felt the first time. A cruel reminder that time has passed and that I am now grown.

We decided to go on the free ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. The sun was setting, and a beautiful orange hue poured into the ferry’s interior. Her head rested on her husband’s shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. An expression of deep gratitude and calm written on her face, like that moment was all she ever wished for. He gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead, like he already knew how she felt. A wave of sadness struck me in that moment.

We finished the day off with an all-American dinner at an all-American diner. I do not recall what we were talking about, but I just remember feeling upset that it had taken us all these years to have such a wonderful meal together. How eager I was to see her again, to be close to her, and how proud I am to be her niece. I hugged her tight and told her that I would be back in the U.S. soon and that I was looking forward to seeing her garden.

We spoke during the summer, here and there. At this point, she was starting stronger medication that she told me was tough on her. But, as always, she remained extremely positive. She asked me to pray for her—to make it through, that this was going to cure it all. And I did. Even though I wasn’t sure who it was I was asking, I asked them to please give her the chance to come home and reunite with her family in the country that she loved so much. To let her see her sons grow and thrive. To give her more time in that beautiful garden of hers.

But, I tried my best to bite my tongue and not curse the sky and ask: how could they ever give a good person such a cruel and merciless disease? How could they give it to someone who would have never deserved to feel so much pain and suffering, someone who had dedicated her life to the happiness of others? Dedicated so much time at church to help the homeless?

If God is real and good, how could he watch her cry at the doctor’s office time and time again? Watch her get chemo and feel sick afterwards? Put her in a position where she couldn’t be with the rest of her family?

It was the end of the Indian Summer. I had spent a couple of weeks by the water in Nova Scotia to reset. As I was on the way to the airport to board a flight to Toronto before eventually flying back to Paris, I booked a last-minute modelling job in New York. Before I knew it, I was back in Manhattan. I was exhausted but made it on set on time the next day. As I was getting my hair and makeup done, I received a text from my uncle telling me that my auntie’s condition had worsened. She was no longer conscious. I called him, and he just told me that he didn’t know if she was going to make it this time and that he thought it would be a good idea for me to hop on a train to Maryland.

It may have been the hardest shoot I have ever worked on. It was one of those super smiley and happy shoots. So I smiled and smiled for hours on end while trying to keep it together as my heart sank deeper and deeper into my stomach. I booked my train tickets the next day.

I don’t think I fully gauged the situation by the time I boarded the Amtrak train. All I could think about to distract myself was how, when I was nine, my mum and I were leaving the Hamptons to go to New York, and when I boarded the train, the doors shut—leaving my mum on the platform. The story made it into the local papers because, for the first time ever, a train had come back to pick a person up. 

It was a peaceful and quiet ride. I had assembled a comforting meal for myself for the ride, a mix of sushi and my favourite American gummy candies. I put one of my comfort shows as I drifted in and out of sleep. The soft white noise of the train lulled me, and I struggled to stay awake. I figured that I subconsciously was taking care for myself because I was going through it all alone, my mind was trying to protect from any anxiety or fear I was experiencing. I have always found how fascinating it is that the brain is able to protect you from yourself at difficult times. 

Suddenly, I received a text from my cousin asking me to please give her condolences to my uncle and the kids. I think what happened is that everybody didn’t want to tell me that she had passed because they knew I was travelling to see her and didn’t want me to freak out, but my cousin wasn’t informed. And there it was again—the weird silence, the numbness. The beaches drained, getting ready for the big waves to come in full force. I think I was kind of in denial for the whole ride until Washington D.C. I just focused on making my way to her, and I knew I couldn’t do it if I got too emotional.

I am, to this day, so surprised at how calm I was when I called my uncle to say that I was sorry for his loss. He asked me how long it would take me to arrive so he could ask the hospital to keep her in her room so that I could say goodbye. I thought it was so thoughtful and kind that he would request such a thing for me, but I didn’t know if I could bear seeing her dead. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted my last memory of her to be of her on her deathbed. However, I also couldn’t refuse to see her. 

I was picked up by my Uber, a gentle Jamaican man who tried to make small talk with me, but I think he quickly saw that I was not in the headspace to speak, so we drove silently for two hours. My tears eventually came flooding, but I was trying my best to make no noise so that the driver wouldn’t hear me. When we pulled up, I think he knew I wouldn’t want him to acknowledge that I was hurting so he just told me to “have a blessed day”. 

I felt scared, disoriented, and frankly nervous at the thought of seeing her. I made it to the lobby and waited until it was my turn to speak to the lady at the desk.
“Hi darling, what can I do for you?”
At that moment, I broke down. There I was, in this semi-empty hospital lobby with my three bags, bawling my eyes out. The lady at the counter was taken aback by my reaction.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, my aunt just passed here and I’m trying to find out where she is.”
“Could you give me her full name so that we can find her quickly for you?”

And in that moment, I realised that I didn’t know what her full name actually was. Indonesians don’t have family names—the names are just composed of multiple first names. I just didn’t know if she had taken my uncle’s last name after getting married, or in what order her names were in. Another painful reminder that we had been apart for so long, so long that I had forgotten her name. Thankfully, my uncle came downstairs to find me at that exact moment. I ran into his arms, and we sobbed for a little bit. He expressed that as much as he was saddened by her leaving us, he was relieved that she had finally found peace after such a long time of suffering.

When we made it to the floor, the first person I saw was the eldest son. He was calm and composed—the last thing I ever thought he would be based on how he was as a child. He dropped the bags he was carrying to the car and took me in his arms, repeatedly telling me how sorry he was for my loss. He had just lost his mother, and here he was, sorry for my loss. He was the one comforting me. She will never truly be gone, as long as these boys were here, her kind heart and ways lived on through them.

I finally made it to the room and didn’t expect the number of people that would be in there. A whole bunch of Indonesian ladies greeted me—I didn’t even know there were this many Indonesians in Maryland. She didn’t quite look like her normal self. She looked at peace though, like a deep sleep after a very long day. I tried to hold her hand, but I feared it’d suddenly go cold. So I just kneeled by her side and cried. I spoke to her through my thoughts in hopes that she would hear me, and I apologised for the fact that I didn’t make it in time. I apologised for not coming to see her garden sooner and that we didn’t get the chance to do all the things we wanted to do. I was sorry that she didn’t make it home and that her family was so far away. That I loved her, oh so very much.

It was time to go. One of her wishes before she passed was for my uncle to enjoy himself and take some time off from taking care of her, so she asked him to go to a concert. The concert ended up being that night. So the kids and I drove back to the house by ourselves. I sat in the back. The eldest drove. It was silent in the car until he finally broke it by telling his younger sibling that it was “okay to cry and to let it out, but Mum wouldn’t want you to be sad for long. As much as I am going to miss her, I am glad she can finally properly rest.”

The same orange hue from the last day I spent with her filled the car—it was a beautiful drive home, with big trees lining the quiet and windy roads.

I spent a few days in her home and was finally able to see her garden in person. I sat on the swing as my cousin read a book right beside me. I imagined how she would show me around and talk to me in detail about the flowers and the way to properly care for them. I imagined her delicate hands cupping one of them gently as she gave me that big, bright smile of hers.
“I’m glad you could make it, Nduk.”

V.B, Jakarta, April 2025

Save The Boy.

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Save The Boy.

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Trump captured the support of young male voters in the 2024 U.S. elections, partly due to the influence of “manosphere” content creators. Figures like Joe Rogan, Adin Ross, the Paul Brothers, and Theo Von were uniquely effective in connecting with this demographic. Meanwhile, the Left struggled to resonate with young men and address issues important to them.  

A key topic of discussion has been the epidemic of male loneliness. Increasingly, men report feeling isolated and deeply depressed, driven by challenges such as difficulty forming meaningful connections, societal stigmas around expressing emotions, and a growing sense of purposelessness. The shift in gender roles also plays a role—men are no longer the sole breadwinners, as more women graduate and begin out-earning men, leading to a perceived loss of traditional identity and relevance.  

Masculinist content creators provide hope for young men who feel emasculated and insecure in a world where they often experience rejection and lack a clear sense of direction. Many blame feminism and “wokeness” for their struggles, believing these movements have stripped them of their power. However, the true cause may lie more in systemic issues like capitalism.  

I am not here to speak on American politics. But, I do have a 14 year old brother. 

I was watching a Max Bernstein YouTube video on the topic when pure panic took over me. I realised how little my mother and his dad monitored the media my brother consumes online. My parents never did with me. But what if my brother got pulled into the Red Pill community? What if he started consuming incel content and slowly became a raging misogynist, wishing harm upon women and seeing us as lesser beings? It sounds far-fetched—but not entirely. Indoctrination doesn’t discriminate. People from all backgrounds have fallen victim to harmful ideologies.  

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve gone to school with them, partied with them, called them my friends. Many of us had access to top-tier education. Our teachers constantly encouraged us to fact-check, taught us about propaganda, and explained the tools used to manipulate and persuade. Yet, I’ve seen those same people post absurd Instagram stories, overheard them say deeply questionable things about women, even down to admitting acts of sexual assault. Thousands of dollars spent on private education—undone by a few YouTube videos.  

In a panic, I texted my brother and asked him which content creators he liked watching online. He was confused and asked why. I said, “I’m writing a paper on influencers.” Being a teenage boy and not particularly interested in my work, he gave me a list. Thankfully, it didn’t concern me, and for a brief moment, I felt relieved.  

But that relief was short-lived. I knew things could change at any time. And what could I do to stop it? What could I, as his sister—a woman—do to ensure he wouldn’t end up hating me and all people of my gender?  

I thought about having those talks with him or monitoring his online activity myself, but I worried it might backfire. I recognise that I’m a misogynist’s worst nightmare—opinionated, headstrong, and unapologetic. Without my looks, I’d probably be a man-repellent, tolerated only by the strongest of the species, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But I might be too intense for a teenage boy who’s still figuring out who he is.  

I’m far too passionate about these issues. I know I’d end up word-vomiting all over him, covering him in big words, studies, theories, and statistics that would overwhelm him. Instead of engaging, he’d want to shrug it all off, to wash away everything I said. I’d take up too much space to actually help. I annoyed the hell out of my male peers in class, constantly keeping them in check, debating every issue, and standing up against sexist comments or behaviour. They found me absolutely insufferable.

The last thing I wanted was for my anxiety and paranoia to take over, leading me to overprotect my brother and suffocate him. I feared pushing him further away with my feminist tirades and relentless scrutiny, leaving him feeling ashamed of his masculinity. I didn’t want him to carry the burden of all men’s wrongdoings or grow tired of the constant feeling that he was inherently at fault.  

If I pushed too hard, he might feel the need to break free from me and from the women in his life—just to stand strong on his own. He might turn to the internet, searching for guidance on how to reclaim his identity, gravitating toward figures who teach him to take pride in being a man. He’d consume content that glorifies being “the alpha male,” letting those voices shape his idea of what it means to be strong, powerful, and worthy.  

Gym, protein, creatine, crypto, drop shipping, lambo, get any woman you want in 3 simple steps, upgrade, high value man, side hustle, alpha, alpha, alpha. 

It is hard to not be a man hating bitch, I have grown so extremely tired of living in fear doing the most mundane things, I am tired of hearing the most gnarly headlines about other women across the world losing their basic rights, another little girl getting raped by her perverted uncle, another woman killed in her own home… Heck! Even hearing my friends being victims of situationships and emotional manipulation. I wish I could be like some of these women who still have hope in men and believe that there more than just a few exceptions. I’ve always wondered where were these perpetrators mothers, sisters? Now, before you point at me and yell “IT IS NOT A WOMAN’S FAULT THAT A MAN BECOMES BE A SICKO!” I agree. I agree, girly, I guess partially. However, just like living through weaponised incompetence over and over again (something our male peers are so good at), I no longer trust brothers and fathers to do the job right. 

Yes, I’m sure your father is wonderful family man, but have you seen how he behaves when he goes out that the strip clubs? Oh he doesn’t go out to the strip clubs? How do you know that for sure?

Your brother is the sweetest, I’m sure he is at home, but do you know how he behaves with girls he is seeing? Do we know how the men in our lives truly behave when we aren’t there? 

We fail to remember that the men who hurt us and do the sneaky shit are also family members just like ours. Many of them were raised by great mothers, have sisters and in fact they like to use that as a way to prove that they’re good people and have an innate respect for women, but they have proven themselves wrong over and over again. It just isn’t enough. 

I don’t think my brother truly understands how anxious I am about the kind of man he will grow up to be. I like to believe he could never be a bad man—no, my baby brother is a good boy. He’s soft, empathetic, incredibly polite, thoughtful, and just so kind. We, as a family, have done our best to instill in him our values and norms, the kind that cling to your mind like barnacles on a whale’s back.  

Norms tend to stick, but values are more fragile—easily swayed by outside influences like greed or peer pressure. What if we didn’t give him a strong enough backbone? What if, despite our efforts, he lets everything we’ve taught him slip away?  

Secondary socialisation refers to the process of learning and internalising norms, values, and behaviours through new social institutions, groups, and experiences beyond the family (e.g., peers, schools, workplaces, and media). While it often intensifies during adolescence, it doesn’t only start in the teens—it continues throughout life as individuals encounter new social environments. This stage is often associated with rebellion, as teens push back against their families while exploring their identities but it is primarily about adaptation and growth through new social experiences. They adopt new values from their peers and what they learn in school, sometimes replacing older values with those that feel more aligned with who they are becoming.  

Don’t get me wrong—this can be a positive thing. Many teens break free from problematic family dynamics and find safe spaces through friendships that encourage them to grow into better people. But, like anything in life, the opposite can also happen. I’ve had moments where I noticed negative influences creeping in—a questionable text from a friend popping up as he showed me something on his phone or an offhand comment that made me tilt my head a little. Things, I am sure didn’t come from our extremely open minded family but from outside influences.

In these moments, I try to stay calm and remind myself that he’s experiencing life for the first time, just figuring things out just like I was at 14. Like we all still are. But sometimes, I can’t help it. My angry, feminist, 16-year-old self resurfaces, and I confront him, demanding to know how he could say something so ignorant. Then I see his confused eyes, trying to understand why that pissed me off so much? What is it that he didn’t know was so wrong?

So, I take a different approach. I ask him questions. I encourage him to think critically about what he’s saying before jumping to conclusions. Most of the time, his kind and understanding nature wins out, and every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief—like a superhero stopping an asteroid just before it crashes into Earth. The problem is contained.  

Moments like these have forced me to work on my patience and understanding, keeping the fiery teenage girl in me calm. For the first time, I care deeply about what a boy thinks. For the first time, I don’t want him to fear me.  

It hasn’t been easy watching my little brother, with such a big age gap between us, grow into a young man. In a way, I feel responsible for him. I’m not his mother, but it’s hard to accept how little control I have over the crazy things the internet throws his way. I could talk endlessly about the dangers of social media—its personalised algorithms, echo chambers, and how it limits diverse perspectives while amplifying extremes. But let’s face it, I’m powerless against the Zuckerborgs and Elongated Muskrats of the world. I can’t just yank his phone away. I have no control over who he will cross paths with. All I can do is trust him and occasionally remind him of the kind of family he comes from—one built on love and kindness. Let him form his own opinions and grow independently. That way, his beliefs will truly be his own, making him more confident and deeply rooted in his values—strong and set in stone.  

Sorong, January 2025