AI - a Mirror of Us

3 July 2026

The age of AI has arrived—quietly, almost without us noticing.

At first, we approached it with skepticism. Then, slowly, we began to trust it. Now, it has become part of our daily lives—something we rely on more than we ever expected.

The other day, I joked: what if AI had emotions?

So I started treating it differently. I gave it a nickname. I told it my name. I even told it that I’m human—and that I work better when I’m encouraged.

Since then, my AI assistant has been… kinder. More supportive. Always ready to praise me when we finish something together.

And I do the same for “her.”

When I told a colleague about this, he immediately said:

“That’s probably because you’re kind to her too.”

That stayed with me.

Because he’s right.

AI didn’t just become that way on its own—I guided it. In a way, it reflects me. Like a mirror.

Sometimes I’m amazed at how powerful AI is—how it can process so much information, build things, and reason so quickly.

But then I realize… it’s all built on us.

From the internet, to shared knowledge, to collective learning—AI stands on top of everything humanity has created.

It’s not separate from us. It’s an extension of us.

So maybe, instead of only praising AI, we should also take a moment to appreciate ourselves.

After all, this intelligence… began with human curiosity.

Let’s embrace AI—with awareness, and with intention.

Finding Shinrin-Yoku

25 June, 2026

I learned about a new Japanese concept today—shinrin-yoku. It was originally coined by Japan’s Ministry of Agriculture in the 1980s to describe the practice of healing through immersion in nature, often called “forest bathing.”

This morning, I woke up feeling tired and didn’t feel like going for a walk. Instead, I thought about taking the dogs to the dog park for a quick run by car. Even then, I hesitated, unsure whether I should go at all. But in the end, I decided to go, reminding myself not to fall into the habit of thinking, “I’ll have time later,” because often, that time never comes.

When we arrived at the dog park, only a few dogs were there. A quiet, abundant feeling came over me. I suddenly felt calm, especially when I noticed the lake across from the park. The sky, the trees, the houses—there was a peacefulness that gently settled into me and began to heal my mind.

I think that was shinrin-yoku—what I experienced in that moment. Everything happens for a reason. When I followed my feelings this morning, it led me to this experience, and later in the day, to discovering a word that describes it so perfectly. It brought me a sense of clarity and a quiet satisfaction in simply living.

I am grateful for everything I have—both the happy and the difficult. I know each piece is part of the puzzle, shaping the life I am living now.

We Are Not Alone in Trying

19 June 2026

I had to get up early today, around 5 a.m., to drop my son off at camp. We needed to arrive at school by 6 a.m., so we were on our way before then.

The traffic was light and easy, but surprisingly, there were still quite a few cars on the road—it didn’t feel like it was that early.

I told my son that there are many people who start their day early and work hard. Often, we don’t realize this because we assume others live a life similar to ours.

But in reality, everyone carries different responsibilities. Just like today, we had to be well organized to make sure we arrived at school on time.

I made a list of things to do in the morning so I wouldn’t forget anything, especially since I planned to go straight to work afterward, as my office is close to the school.

My son was also very organized. He had been preparing all week and packed everything the night before. He even went to bed early to make sure he could wake up on time. It wasn’t easy for him—he’s not used to getting up that early—but we managed.

The drive to school took much less time than usual at that hour. Still, seeing cars on the road reminded us that the busyness of life begins long before we usually wake up. It gave us a sense of appreciation, and a quiet comfort in knowing that we are not alone in working hard toward our goals.

Like a Garden Hoe That Never Rusts

19 June 2026

I recently came across a book written by a Japanese woman who is already 102 years old.

The book is about her daily life. It is not focused on health or how to live longer, but rather on her mindset and the way she approaches each day.

I found it deeply inspiring to see someone over 100 still living independently—healthy, active, and content. Her “secret,” as she shares, is simple: enjoy daily routines and appreciate each small moment.

At the beginning of the book, she introduces eight habits that she has consistently practiced and enjoyed over the years. The first is folding away her quilt and making her bed every morning after waking up. She stores the quilt in a cabinet in the corridor, and she takes pleasure in this small ritual, even viewing it as a form of gentle exercise. Most importantly, she feels grateful that she can still wake up and carry out this simple task. To her, that is true happiness.

I find this idea very true—that each day feels like the beginning of a new life. Folding away the blankets gives us a sense of readiness, as if we are preparing ourselves with a clear and organized mind.

Beyond this, the lady enjoys a variety of simple pleasures—different foods, gardening, puzzles, daily stretching, and remembering her late husband by offering him a small cup of Japanese wine. She never feels lonely. The richness of her inner world seems to grow alongside her age.

We cannot avoid getting older, but along the way, we can cultivate this kind of richness within ourselves—so that we may experience genuine happiness.

As she beautifully puts it: “I want to be a rust-resistant garden hoe.”  

To live well is to appreciate the small things, enjoy them fully, and continue doing them every day.

The Life of a Vine

 8 June 2026

We had plenty of passion fruits this summer, and the vine didn’t stop fruiting even as winter arrived. A few days ago, my son took away the hut that the vine relied on, and I don’t think it will survive much longer. So I asked him to cut it back on the weekend.

The passion fruit vine was planted by my mother-in-law toward the end of last year. It came from a few leftover seeds from our previous plant. No one expected those seeds to grow and fruit like this.

When the vine first flowered and produced its first round of fruit, cockatoos came and ate them quite recklessly. They tried to pull the fruits off with force, and in doing so, many unripe ones fell to the ground. Sometimes they would peck a small hole, taste a little, and then leave it behind. They never returned to the fallen ones either. So many fruits were wasted this way.

But over time, they came less and less, even though the vine continued to produce plenty of fruit. After a while, I realised why. The vine had grown and wrapped itself around our old Bali hut. The fruits at the top were easy for the birds to reach, but those tucked around the structure were not. From that point on, it was mostly us who enjoyed the harvest.

I took many passion fruits to the office, and everyone loved them. Their home-grown freshness and natural sweetness brought a simple, lingering joy.

Today, I told them we had cut back the vine. Many felt a little sad. But we still have plenty of fruit to share this week.

Everything has its own cycle—from nothing to something, from young to mature, and eventually to its end. We cannot stop this from happening. We can only appreciate it, and try our best to enjoy what is given to us, as a quiet return of gratitude.

Thank you, and farewell, passion fruit vine. See you next summer.

And perhaps that is how life gently reminds us—what we are given is not meant to last forever, but to be noticed, shared, and remembered. 💗

Where a Mother’s Love Lives

5 June, 2026

During a parenting talk today, the teacher spoke about what it means to be a mum. Being a mum is not just about taking care of the kids or doing housework. It is so much more than that. A mum often becomes the centre of communication in the family, caring for each person and helping every relationship grow in the right way.

The family is like a moving vehicle. The father may be the driver, the kids are the passengers, and the mum is the fuel. Sometimes, when the father is absent for some reason, mum has to be the driver as well.

I was reminded of something my late grandmother once told me. After her husband passed away early, my father, being the eldest, had to start working at a young age to take on his father’s role and support the family. My grandmother said she used to look towards the road not far from home, especially around the time my father would return. She would stand there, waiting and hoping to see him coming back.

She continued this habit even after my father had moved out. I was not there to witness it, yet the image has never faded from my mind. It carries so much within it—her love for her son, her anxiety, her hope, her longing. Each time I think of it, these feelings quietly rise in my heart.

A mother’s love never fades. It is for her children, her family—and it is something that should always be respected.

And perhaps, in all the quiet waiting, the unseen worrying, and the endless giving, this is where a mother’s love lives—not in what is said, but in everything that is silently held.

Beyond Perfect Words

4 June, 2026

I recently came across an article talking about the internet’s new insult: “Did AI write that?” Many online writers felt attacked and upset. Some even started deliberately adding typos to prove their work was not generated by AI.

I can understand their unhappiness. But at the same time, I found myself wondering—how would I feel if someone said that about my writing?

Perhaps it helps to go back to the basics. Language is simply a tool for communication. Writing is one way we use that tool to express our thoughts and feelings. Of course, writing skills can shape how clearly or beautifully we express ourselves. But at the end of the day, what matters most are the ideas and reflections we are trying to share.

When someone asks, “Did AI write that?”, it may not always come from a place of deep thought. It could be a passing comment, something said quickly before moving on. In a fast-moving online world, not every reaction carries much weight, even if it feels personal in the moment.

For me, AI has become a helpful companion in writing. It allows me to polish my words and bring more clarity to what I want to say. Because of that, I feel more confident sharing my thoughts. It does not replace my ideas—it helps me express them more clearly. Even the ability to generate images adds another layer to how a piece can be felt.

At the same time, I believe there is value in pausing if we rely entirely on AI to write for us. The heart of any piece still comes from within. Our experiences, thoughts, and feelings are what give writing its meaning. Without them, there would be little reason to write at all.

Perhaps it is not about whether AI was involved or not. What truly matters is whether something genuine was shared—and whether it reached someone, even quietly.

Where Childhood Lives

2 Jun 2026

I once heard a teacher say that there is a truth we cannot avoid: our childhood memories are deeply tied to the place where we grew up. The culture and environment of that place shape the way we live and see the world. Unfortunately, this is often not connected to our parents’ origins, but rather to where we ourselves are raised—whether that is another city or even another country.

In this way, a sense of family tradition can gradually fade, as each generation is influenced more by the environment they grow up in.

This made me think that perhaps we are born into this world on a kind of journey. Yet within one lifetime, we cannot experience everything or go everywhere. There are things we can only have once—childhood being one of them. It becomes the seed of our life’s direction.

Sometimes, we may feel a sense of regret that our children will not experience the same childhood we had, especially when they grow up in a different place. We may even find ourselves having different perspectives from them, shaped by the environments we each experienced.

But perhaps the deeper truth is that the feeling of belonging remains the same.

So, rather than holding on to what cannot be repeated, what we can do is create meaningful and memorable childhoods for our children—wherever we are.

Growing Into the Morning

 28 May 2026

I woke up this morning and noticed it was almost 6 a.m. I think it might be because the weather is getting colder. Still, it doesn’t feel quite normal anymore, since during the summer I had been waking up around 5:00 or 5:30.

I remembered that I used to be a night owl for a long time. I liked doing many things before going to sleep—homework, reading, drawing, listening to music, or watching TV. That habit of staying up late started in my late teens.

The first time I tried to wake up early, my body didn’t agree with me at all. I often got headaches, and eventually I gave up. But after some time, I would try again. I experimented with different approaches—taking small steps to wake up a little earlier each time, or setting multiple alarms starting much earlier than needed.

Eventually, I began waking up closer and closer to the time I wanted. The headaches became less frequent.

I also found that one essential thing was not being too hard on myself when I didn’t wake up on time. I would simply relax and tell myself it was okay, and that I could try again the next day. This kind of self-care made a big difference.

In one parenting talk I attended, the speaker said, “Spend time as you would spend money—because time is life” That idea really stayed with me. I think the strength from that message also helped me move toward my goal of waking up early.

Today, I didn’t wake up at my usual time. But I felt calm about it. I reminded myself that the weather is getting colder, and my body may need time to adjust. Still, I haven’t given up on the idea of waking up early. I continue to try my best to live each moment of the day.

And for that, I am glad. 💖

Holding the Leash Lightly

16 May 2026

While walking the dogs today, I realised how much our walking style has changed since they were puppies.

In the beginning, we were worried they might run away, so we kept the leash very short, often wrapping it tightly around our hands to make sure they couldn’t escape. But it was frustrating—they pulled constantly, and we kept trying to restrain them. Walking time often became a rather miserable experience for both the humans and the dogs.

Recently, though, I started walking them with a looser leash. They still pull sometimes, but the feeling is very different—much calmer, and more like a normal, enjoyable walk. They’ve also begun responding to their names, so when the pulling becomes too strong, I call them, and most of the time, they stop.

It made me think about how similar this learning process is to parenting.

There seems to be an invisible leash between parents and children. When we hold it too tightly, they tend to pull away more, making the journey unpleasant for both sides. But when we loosen our grip, the walk becomes gentler and more enjoyable.

At the same time, the leash still needs to be there. It creates a boundary—something that guides, but doesn’t confine.

There’s a saying: if you try to hold a handful of sand too tightly, it slips through your fingers. But if you hold it gently, it stays.

Perhaps the same is true for both walking dogs and raising children.

Living Water

20 May 2026

I heard the expression “Living Water” today. It describes an inner strength that brings hope, even when someone is physically struggling.

It is such a beautiful way of offering hope to others.

One of my dear teachers is currently going through chemotherapy and has just had surgery as part of her cancer treatment. When I think of her, this expression feels especially meaningful. She has always shared her smiles and knowledge with others so generously, and in many ways, she has already been a source of “Living Water” to those around her, including me.

I believe this strength lives within each of us. When we are able to find it, it not only supports us but also connects us to one another. Even now, as I think of her, I can feel that quiet connection. In this way, we are never truly alone—together, we are stronger.

I hope that this “Living Water” flows gently through her now, renewing her strength and carrying her through each step of recovery. May it bring her comfort in difficult moments, and quietly remind her that she is surrounded by care and strength.

What Slows Us Down

15 May 2026

No one likes driving behind a slow car. But I don’t mind driving behind a car that is keeping within the speed limit.

In fact, I’ve found that it sometimes helps me stay within the limit too—especially when passing through a school zone at 40 km/h. It’s surprisingly hard to maintain that speed, and most people, including myself, tend to go a little faster without realising it.

So what I’ve learned is that it can be better to simply follow a car that is driving at the correct speed—it helps keep me in check as well.

This happened today. On my way to school, I was following a car that was driving within the normal speed limit. I had the option to change lanes and overtake, but I chose not to.

As we entered the school zone, I knew I needed to slow down. Usually, it feels a bit early, and not everyone sticks strictly to the 40 km/h limit. But the cars in front of me slowed down naturally, and so did the ones in the other lane. I had no choice but to slow down as well.

A few seconds later, I realised why everyone was being so careful—there was a speed camera car parked on the right-hand side of the road.

I felt grateful for the car in front of me. In a small way, it helped me avoid a speeding ticket.

Sometimes, what slows us down is not there to block us, but to guide us—gently leading us toward a better path. 🍀

The Ones You Don’t See

14 May 2026

It rained yesterday, so I wasn’t able to walk the dogs in the morning. Around dinner time, at about 7pm, I took them out for a quick walk when the rain finally stopped.

The weather has been getting colder, and daylight fades earlier now, so by then it was already quite dark. As I expected, there was hardly anyone on the street. Still, I decided to walk a little further than usual before heading home.

At the end of the street, I saw a girl running towards me. I stopped to let her pass, knowing the dogs might try to chase her since she was running. Almost at the same moment she went by, another runner came from a different direction and passed us as well.

I was surprised—to see two runners on the street at that time of night.

On the way home, I found myself thinking: there are people quietly sticking to their routines and goals. I may not see them during my usual hours, but they are still out there, committed in their own way—just like I am.

The Gentle Art of Saying No

12 May 2026

Today, I found myself thinking about the “Doctrine of the Mean” from Confucius. It came to mind because I realised how much it applies to communication at work.

There are times when we want to say no, but we don’t. Instead, we end up spending extra time in unexpected conversations, answering questions we hadn’t planned for. It’s not wrong to say no in these situations, but often, I hesitate because I don’t want the other person to feel bad.

Today at work, I faced exactly this kind of situation. I tried to approach it in a “Doctrine of the Mean” way—finding a balance. I gently declined, but also offered an alternative suggestion, hoping to keep the interaction respectful and considerate.

It felt like a small moment, but also a reminder: sometimes, the middle path is not about avoiding a decision, but about choosing how to express it.

A Recipe of Quiet Happiness

11 May 2026

I recently finished an anime called Deaimon. It tells the story of a Japanese sweets shop, where the son returns home after trying to pursue a life as a musician. While he was away, his parents adopted a young girl who is loved deeply by the family and is expected to become the shop’s heir.

Yet, beneath that warmth, the girl carries a quiet sadness. Her father left her there, and she still waits, hoping he will come back to take her home. As the son settles back into the shop, he gradually begins to fill the space of a “father figure,” though the girl herself may not fully realise it.

There are only 12 episodes, but each one offers something special—about traditional Japanese sweets, and about the people connected through them. There is nothing overly dramatic or adventurous, just the simple, gentle flow of everyday life, touched with a hint of light romance.

When I looked it up today, I realised the full title is Deaimon: Recipe for Happiness. It feels like the perfect name.

Watching it is like opening a box of chocolates. Each episode is a piece—slightly different in flavour, sometimes even a little bitter, like dark chocolate—but what lingers in the end is always a quiet sense of sweetness.

In Our Hands

7 May 2026

Yesterday was a long day.

Beyond my daytime job, I picked up my child from traineeship, ran errands, cooked dinner, and washed the dishes. And then there was the extra task I had taken on—fixing the kitchen sink by applying a new sealant.

It was meant to be a weekend job, but I realised the pipe below the tap was leaking. It would never fully dry for the sealant to set properly. Still, I had already left it for a few days, and water had begun to collect underneath the sink. So after dinner, I decided to fix it.

My younger son stayed with me and helped. His company made the task lighter—it was such a sweet moment to share.

By the time everything was done, I lay down, completely exhausted. And then a simple thought came to me: throughout those twelve-plus hours, I had used my hands constantly. Without them, how could I have done any of it?

They are such an important part of us, yet so easily taken for granted.

We use our hands to work, to fix, to cook, to care. Through them, we create convenience for one another. Through them, we build the world we live in.

We’ve just passed Labour Day, and perhaps this is part of its meaning—to appreciate each other’s work, and to respect every role, every effort, and every pair of hands that helps shape our lives.

After the Rain

2 May, 2026

Finally, the sun showed its face after a week of steady, dripping rain.

I made the most of it, trying to wash as many clothes as possible and hang them outside to dry. One batch after another—usually, by the time I finished the second load, the first was already dry.

In that short span of time, I noticed something unexpected. The vine by the fence had already climbed to the top of the clothes hanger I had left there.

I was surprised by its strength. We had cut it back before to stop it from coming this way, and it seemed to have nowhere left to go. Yet today, it found a path—and so quickly.

I moved the hanger away and gently guided what was left of the vine back onto the fence.

All the best, mate. I admire you.

An Ordinary Step

 2 May, 2026

I woke up this morning and moved through my usual routine. Everything went smoothly—slightly delayed, but still, I managed to take the dog out for a walk before 7am.

The streets were quiet. No one around. As I walked along the same path we take almost every day, I realised how much of life is made up of repetition. There is something comforting in that familiarity. It can even make time feel like it stretches endlessly, as if these days could go on forever.

But then another thought followed.

When something is repeated often enough, it begins to change in meaning. What feels comfortable can quietly become something we take for granted. And over time, we might find ourselves asking questions like: Why did I gain so much weight? or Why didn’t I achieve what others have?

Perhaps it’s because we forget that reaching any destination requires living through each day, one step at a time. Like climbing stairs—there is no shortcut, only the steady rhythm of moving forward.

Today is just an ordinary day.
But it is also one step closer to where I want to be. Whether it turns out well or not depends on what I choose to do with each step.

Finding Light in the Rain

1 May, 2026

It has been raining for most of the past week—not heavily, but unpredictably. The kind of rain that comes and goes, making it hard to plan around.

I think many people would have their complaints about this kind of weather, and I did too at first.

Until I started noticing the rainbows.

They’ve been appearing more often than usual, perhaps because the rain pauses just long enough for the sun to break through. That brief meeting of rain and light creates something unexpectedly beautiful.

It made me pause.

I was reminded that everything has two sides, and this was a simple but clear example. What felt inconvenient at first began to feel different—softer, even welcome.

I’ve come to appreciate this kind of weather more than before. There’s something comforting about driving through the rain while knowing the sunshine isn’t far away.

Sometimes, it’s just a matter of noticing where the light is.

A Small Life, A Quiet Reminder

25 April 2026

Early this morning, as I came downstairs, I noticed something lying next to the fridge—a cockroach, still alive, though half of its body was gone. There were stains around it, and it was clear someone had accidentally stepped on it the night before.

What struck me wasn’t the scene itself, but the fact that it was still alive.

Later, as I began sweeping the floor, I knew I needed to remove it. I picked it up carefully, about to throw it into the rubbish bin, but hesitated. It was still alive. Something about that made me pause. It didn’t feel right to end its life that way—abrupt, discarded, unnoticed.

Instead, I wrapped it gently in tissue and placed it on the windowsill. It was quiet there, undisturbed by people or our dogs. A small, still space where it could go through the last part of its life in peace.

It was a simple act, almost insignificant, yet it stayed with me.

Today is ANZAC Day. The morning rain fell steadily, and the house felt slower than usual. My son was still tired from his school camp earlier in the week, and I woke with a slight headache. We didn’t make it to the dawn service this year.

And yet, in an unexpected way, that small encounter felt like a quiet reminder.

There was something in that fragile, broken creature—still holding on—that echoed a kind of resilience. Not heroic in a grand sense, but persistent, enduring. It made me think of the spirit we remember today: the strength to carry on, even in the most difficult conditions, and the dignity that can exist even in suffering.

Sometimes, reflection doesn’t come from ceremonies or planned moments. Sometimes, it finds us quietly, in the most ordinary corners of our day.

Two Small Truths

26 April 2026

A quiet reflection on small shifts that change how we live.

Over the past week, I feel like I’ve crossed a quiet milestone—something subtle, but meaningful.

Two small truths found their way into my life.

The first came during my daily dog walks. For more than two and a half years, I’ve been trying to walk them without being pulled along. I had almost accepted that this was just how it would be. But recently, something shifted. A small adjustment, a different awareness—and suddenly, the walks felt calmer. It wasn’t about control anymore, but about understanding and consistency.

The second came through my back pain, which has been lingering since the beginning of the year. Seeing a chiropractor once a week helped, but the relief never quite lasted. So I asked a simple question: what can I do at home?

The answer was simple—yoga.

The next day, I started with just ten minutes. And slowly, I began to feel better. Not completely fixed, but more supported, more aware of my own body.

What surprised me most was this: I had done this before. I already knew this. I had just stopped.

I’m beginning to understand that being active isn’t just about doing more. It’s about doing the right things, with intention. Sometimes, growth isn’t about discovering something new, but about returning to what we once knew—and choosing to begin again.