Built by Fire, Guided by Code

 

A friend of mine in Yokohama made this. He was supposed to send it as an oil painting, but I'm already happy with this version.

I think we’ve all heard the saying: “If you want to go fast, go alone. But if you want to go far, go together.” And for the past 17 years of my career, I’ve mostly chosen the latter—because I believe in the power of unity. When there’s a shared sense of belonging, a shared vision and mission, a shared purpose, the teams I’ve built have always been among the strongest. I’ve seen it, I’ve proven it, and I guarantee it.

In my personal life, there’s a Javanese saying I often reflect on (since I’m still deeply rooted in my Javanese heritage):

“Ing sak omah, ora kena ana loro sumber banyu sing padha bantere.”

(In one house, there cannot be two water sources flowing equally strong.)

Maybe that’s why my mum chose to give up her steady career and dedicate herself fully to motherhood—which, let’s be honest, is also a full-time job, and one of the hardest. It requires unwavering devotion, loyalty, integrity, accountability, and constant responsibility. No days off. She and my stepfather were a power couple, perfectly complementing each other. They were my first idea of “couple goals.” My mum entrusted her life to my stepfather without question. Completely.

I’ve been craving—no, longing—for that kind of stability, security, and safety in my personal life. That’s why I started building those things within myself first, through my professional path. But it gets hard when I can barely find someone who matches the same level of effort—not just for me, but for themselves. I know I’m responsible for my own happiness, for my own well-being. That’s why I’ve worked so damn hard to provide for myself all over again, after fulfilling my role as the eldest in my family.

Somewhere in Lombok, April 2025, personal photo.

My mum used to dismiss me from when I was a kid until I was about 15 or 16. She mastered the silent treatment and wielded it not just against my stepfather or her children, but against the world. She’d boil everything inside, leaving us all walking on eggshells whenever we tried to communicate. To her, emotions were weakness, crying was a waste of time, and compliments were just useless, flowery words. And when she finally exploded, it hurt not only herself, but the whole family. She still regrets that, even today.

I was the first in the family to step up and break that cycle. I was the outspoken one—the sharp-tongued, black-sheep, troublemaker. When she dismissed me, I confronted her. When she tried to shut me down, I pushed her buttons until she said something—anything—to my face. When she physically hurt me, I knelt before her and asked for more—until she showed me respect. Until she took accountability. That she, as a parent, is not a holy or higher being. That she is human, just like the rest of us—and she makes mistakes too.

Then I met my first Oji-san in Yokohama—the second man who taught me how to forge myself as a warrior. The first was my grandfather on my mum’s side. They were my mentors, my role models—the ones who ticked all the boxes of what a real man should be. Tough yet gentle. Firm yet compassionate. Rough yet soft. They listened to me not to judge, correct, or criticize—but to truly understand me. My views. My perspective. They saw me. They heard me. They understood me—completely.

Grandpa and I, at his house, circa 1990.

Grandpa taught me how to understand my mum. How to read her gestures and thoughts. For a seven-year-old, it was a tough subject, but I learned. He introduced me to Kejawen—a Javanese spiritual philosophy—so I would never forget my roots. He taught me discipline, not just physically, but mentally. Grandpa was the one who kept reminding me, until his last breath, that it’s okay to be different. I owe him my childhood.

My first Oji-san taught me about the Samurai code—Bushidō, the Way of the Warrior. He didn’t just tell me about Buddhism; he lived it. He taught me how to tame the greatest enemy I’ll ever face—myself. He reminded me often: wherever you go, whatever you do, live by these values:

Bushidō (The Way of the Warrior)

This ethical code wasn’t a single document—it was a cultural philosophy shaped over centuries. The core virtues:
• Rectitude (Gi): Do what’s right, always.
• Courage (Yū): Brave but wise.
• Benevolence (Jin): Compassion and mercy.
• Respect (Rei): Courtesy, even to enemies.
• Honesty (Makoto): Truth in action and word.
• Honor (Meiyo): Moral self-worth.
• Loyalty (Chūgi): Unshakable allegiance.

Bushidō fuses Zen Buddhism’s inner calm, Shinto’s reverence for nature and ancestors, and Confucian duty and loyalty.

That’s why my closest friends say this: I’m a ride-or-die kind of gal. I rarely follow, but when I do, I’ll follow you to the end of the world. Because I’ve lived by these codes for 20 years now.

Klui beach, Lombok, April 2025, personal photo.

Do I always succeed? No. I’m still learning. I’ll never stop learning how to be a decent human, one who values open, honest communication without force. If I need to force it, or it feels like a chore, I step away, close the door, burn the bridge—whatever it takes to protect my peace and sanity. And that’s never easy.

It’s hard to admit that some people in your orbit won’t ever shift their mindset, won’t grow beyond their limiting beliefs, won’t take responsibility. That they’ll continue seeing themselves as victims instead of evolving and saying:

“Okay, I was a mess. I fucked up. What can I do to grow? I’m open to real conversations—not attacks, but true exchanges that challenge me for the better.”

But hey—a woman can dream, right?

Somewhere in Lombok, April 2025, personal photo.

I’ve been dismissed. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been disappointed. I’ve felt worthless and questioned my value as a human being. Sometimes, I still believe I’m a big, fat failure—especially when I view myself through the lens of social constructs and curated perfection. But I refuse to be consumed by that. Not today. I ride the roller coaster of life on my own terms—not for sympathy, but because it is what it is.

To anyone reading this, still trying to find your way—I see you. I feel you. I hear you. You’re not alone. I’m not here to fix you or judge you—we carry similar scars. And I know—sometimes, life feels like a battlefield. That’s why we fight. That’s why we win. For ourselves, first. Everything and everyone else can wait.

Let them wait. This one’s for you.

Ubud, 10th May 2025

"Damocles" - Sleep Token