A Search for Something Real
My story begins in a small village in North Sumatra, where the air was sweet and life moved at a gentler pace. It was a place of simple joys, where everyone knew each other and the world felt small and safe.
I was a quiet child, the kind who felt things deeply. I would watch the world with wide eyes, taking everything in. I saw how hard my parents worked to provide for our big family. Our home was always full, not just with my brother and sister, but with grandparents, aunts, and my cousin too. I understood, even as a young girl, that my parents carried a heavy weight on their shoulders.
Their wish for us was to be good, diligent, and respectful. There were many rules, a structure designed to keep us safe and on the right path. To help keep the peace at home and lighten my mother’s load, I learned to do the house chores from a very young age. I found a quiet pride in making the floors sparkle or helping to prepare a meal. It was my way of saying, “I see how hard you work. I want to help.”
But in a busy house, sometimes the small acts of service can go unnoticed. I didn’t yet understand that for my parents, working tirelessly was their language of love. They were showing they cared by putting food on the table and a roof over our heads. At the time, all my young heart felt was a longing to be seen for who I was. I felt that my own voice was too small to be heard, and I grew quieter, more timid, carrying a feeling that I didn’t quite fit in.
As I grew into a young adult, that feeling grew with me. I worked full-time to pay for my night classes, watching my friends enjoy an easier path while I juggled work and study. It was exhausting, and at times, it felt deeply unfair. A quiet thought began to whisper inside me: “Is this all there is?”
But that whisper also carried a spark. It was a stubborn belief that I was meant for more. I dreamed big, colourful dreams of a life where I could learn, explore and finally discover who I was meant to be. I was thirsty for knowledge and for the world that I knew must exist beyond my own.
It was a scary feeling, but the call to find that life for myself became too strong to ignore. So, I took the bravest step I had ever taken. At the age of 28, I decided to answer that call. I packed my bags, said goodbye to the only home I had ever known, and set out for a new beginning in Singapore.
It wasn’t about running away from my past. It was about running towards my future. I was finally going in search of something real, starting with my authenic self.
My Personal Journey in a Foreign Country: The Heart of the Story
Landing in Singapore was like stepping onto a different planet. The skyscrapers touched the clouds, and everything moved at a pace I’d never known. I was full of hope, but also completely clueless. My first mission was to find a job, and it felt like an impossible mountain to climb. After what felt like a hundred interviews, each one a lesson in rejection, I finally reached the summit. I secured a two-year contract. I remember the feeling of triumph; I had done it. I was starting my new life.
But the challenge was only beginning. The workplace could be a tough jungle, and I stumbled into a patch of it filled with bullies. Their sharp, offensive words found their mark on my already low self-esteem, leaving fresh scars on my sensitive heart. For a while, I felt smaller than I had back home. The dream was starting to taste bitter.
Then, one day, a fire lit inside me. I asked myself a simple but powerful question: “Do you want to be a victim your whole life?” The answer was a firm, quiet “no.” I realised that if I wanted the world to treat me differently, I had to become different. I had to rise up. So, I made a decision that would define the next chapter of my life: I would become a certified accountant. Once again, I signed up for a life of exhaustion. Working full-time by day and studying late on the weekends. For four and a half long years, this was my rhythm. It was gruelling, but every lesson felt like armour, making me stronger, smarter, and harder to knock down.
I did it. I became a chartered accountant and began to climb the corporate ladder. Financially, life became more comfortable. I could provide for myself and even move to my own place. But on the inside, things were far from balanced. The stress was immense. My relationships were messy and unfulfilling. I felt stuck on a treadmill, running fast but going nowhere.
The little girl inside me, the one who longed to be seen and loved, was still hurting. I was often moody and grumpy, easily triggered by small things. My mind was like a browser with a hundred tabs open, all flashing with worries: ‘You’re not good enough.’ ‘Why can’t you make real connections?’ ‘You will fail.’ I was a perfectionist, a control freak, desperately trying to build a life so impressive that it would finally win me the acknowledgement I had always craved from my parents.
Then, in 2020, the world stopped. Covid-19 lockdowns began. Just three months before, my father had been diagnosed with cirrhosis. I rushed home to Indonesia to see him in March, my heart filled with dread. The news warned of imminent border closures, and I faced an impossible choice. I told my father, “I will come back to visit soon, Dad,” clinging to the hope that it was true. It was a painful goodbye.
The lockdowns trapped me in Singapore. I spent desperate days writing to hospitals, begging for information on liver transplants, but the world was closed. A month later, my father passed away. I was utterly broken.
I grieved completely alone in my flat. While my family gathered to honour him, I was separated by sea and law. I numbly logged into work each day because stopping meant feeling, and feeling meant being swallowed whole by a sorrow I couldn’t handle. The guilt and grief were a heavy blanket, smothering me.
But in that profound silence and solitude, something began to shift. In the empty space after work, with nowhere to go and no one to see, I was left alone with my thoughts. I started to question everything. What was the point of all this running? Of all this striving? My dad was gone, and I couldn’t spend time with him anymore. I planned to bring him to travel more, he had been working so hard and rarely enjoyed life. I wished to show him how much I loved him one more time. Everything I had worked for suddenly felt meaningless.
I couldn’t sleep. I dreamt of him constantly. I was drowning in questions I couldn’t answer, and a pain I didn’t know how to heal. But this deep, dark low point was also the birthplace of a new beginning. It was the catalyst that forced me to finally stop, and truly look within. This pain, as unbearable as it was, became the first step on my most important journey: the journey back to myself
The Dream of My Father That Changed Everything
The months after my father’s passing blurred into one long, grey haze. Sleep was a foreign country I could no longer visit. I would lie in the silence of my room, the weight of my grief a physical presence on my chest. In the daytime, I moved through the world like a zombie, performing tasks, speaking words, but feeling completely numb inside.
Nobody around me really knew how to talk about the loss. I felt utterly alone, trapped in a glass box where everyone could see me, but no one could truly reach me. I wondered if this hollow, aching feeling would be my forever.
Then, one night, after many long months, everything changed.
I finally fell into a deep sleep. And in that sleep, I had a dream. It was so vivid, so real, it felt less like a dream and more like a visit.
My father and I were walking together on a path surrounded by lush, green trees. The air was warm and sweet, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a pure, simple happiness. We walked in a comfortable silence, I held his arm, just enjoying each other’s company.
Then, he turned his head to look at me. His face was calm and full of a love that needed no words. He looked into my eyes and he said, “Mei, remember to always treasure the people around you while they are still alive.”
I woke up with a gasp.
The room was dark and silent. And for a beautiful, fleeting second, I felt his presence. Then, the reality came crashing down. He was gone. The warmth of the dream vanished, leaving me in the cold bed of my present. I began to cry, deep, heaving sobs that I had been holding in for months. It was not a peaceful feeling. It was the profound and painful ache of missing him, sharpened by the beauty of the dream. I cried for the lost time, for the words unsaid, for the finality of it all.
But within that storm of sadness, something new was born. His words echoed in my heart, not as a soft whisper, but as a clear call. The dream was a turning point. It didn’t take the pain away, but it gave my grief a purpose. It shook me awake.
I realised that I had been so focused on surviving, on achieving, on numbing the pain, that I had forgotten how to truly live. How could I treasure others if I felt so broken myself? How could I appreciate the people around me if I was lost in my own sorrow?
For the first time, my question changed. It was no longer “Why is this happening?” or “When will this pain end?”. Instead, I started to ask, “How can I feel better?”
This was the beginning. My father’s message became my compass. I knew I had to heal myself first. I had to find a way to fill my own cup before I could ever hope to fill anyone else’s. That question—”how can I feel better?” set me on a new path, a quest to find tools not just for survival, but for genuine healing and peace.
Deep Dive into the Modalities: The Journey Inward
Lost and searching for a way to feel better, I turned to the one place everyone goes for answers: the internet. I scrolled through pages and pages, my eyes glazing over, until one word suddenly jumped out at me: aura.
It was intriguing. A glowing energy field? A cleanse? It felt mysterious and just different enough from anything I’d tried before. It was my birthday month, and I had just received my bonus from work. I took it as a sign. I decided to be brave, to invest in myself, and booked a session with the healer.
After the session, I went home full of hope, convinced I would finally have my first proper night’s sleep in almost a year. Boy, was I wrong. For two entire nights, my eyes refused to stay closed. It was as if every cell in my body was buzzing. I had strange, swirling sensations behind my eyelids. I felt wired. Alarmed, I contacted the healer. “What is going on? Is this normal?”
She calmly explained that for someone sensitive, an energy shift can feel like a shock to the system. “Your third eye is adjusting,” she said. “Give it a few days.”
So, after 48 hours of no sleep, I dragged myself to work. I was walking to the bus stop, feeling exhausted, when something stopped me in my tracks.
I suddenly saw everything.
The sky wasn’t just blue; it was a breathtaking, vibrant cerulean. The clouds weren’t just white; they were brilliantly fluffy sculptures against the immense blue. I heard birds chirping, and the sound wasn’t just background noise. It was a clear, beautiful song. A wave of profound calm washed over me, so strong it was almost dizzying. I stood there on the pavement, utterly stunned. What was happening? Why did the entire world suddenly look and feel so incredibly beautiful? It was a feeling of peace I didn’t even know was possible.
And just like that, I was hooked. I was thirsty for knowledge. I had to understand what an aura was, what chakras were, and how to maintain this incredible sense of balance. I started attending sound baths and Kundalini yoga classes, desperately trying to hold onto that feeling of peace.
During one sound bath session, I overheard the sound therapist (who would later become my mentor) talking to another woman about courses. Without even thinking, my introvert self did something completely out of character. I chimed in. “Excuse me,” I said, “Could you please send that information to me as well?”
That simple, curious question changed the trajectory of my life. She sent me the details, and I saw one of them was a hypnotherapy course. I was immediately intrigued. I decided to just try Module One, telling myself that if it was interesting, I’d continue. If not, I could walk away.
I could never have walked away. From the very first lesson, I was captivated. This was it. This was the miraculous work I had been searching for. I began working with my peers, learning to facilitate healing for others and, most importantly, for myself. Through inner child work and past life regression, I started to heal deep wounds I had carried in my system.
The transformation was profound. I gained clarity I never had before. I learned to pause and assess my life choices without being clouded by old insecurities. I found I could listen to others without my own ego getting in the way. I began to truly accept myself, flaws and all, and that allowed me to accept others with more compassion. I could see situations from multiple angles. I felt, for the first time, truly wiser.
This hunger for understanding kept growing. I went on to learn Reiki, using it as a powerful tool for my personal growth. And I naturally ventured deeper into the world that had first captivated me: sound healing, combining my lifelong fascination with music with my passion for healing.
Each modality wasn’t just a technique; it was a key that uncovered a different part of me, bringing me closer to the authentic, peaceful self I was always meant to be.
The Philosophy: The “Glass Half Full” in Practice
Imagine for a moment that every therapist is a vessel, a glass. Our knowledge, our energy, and our empathy are what we hold inside to offer to others. Now, imagine a client arrives, their own cup feeling completely empty. They look to us to share from our own supply, to help refill theirs.
If my glass is near empty, if I am drained, stressed, or carrying my own unhealed burdens, what can I possibly give? I might offer a few last drops, but it will not be enough. The session would leave us both feeling depleted.
This is why my first and most important duty is to keep my own glass at least half full. Self-care isn’t a luxury in my line of work; it is the very foundation of it. It is how I ensure that I always have enough clarity, energy, and compassion to hold a safe, strong space for your healing. My ability to help you is directly linked to my own well-being.
My personal practice is less about routines and more about returning to myself.
You won’t find me doing journaling, word affirmations, or creating vision boards. These are wonderful tools for many, but my work happens at a deeper, subconscious level. When I feel triggered by certain events or feel a wave of stress, I see it as a valuable signal. I don’t ignore it; I get curious about it. I will sit quietly and ponder: What about this touched a nerve? Which part of my own story is asking for attention and alignment?
My primary tool is self-hypnosis. This isn’t about escaping reality; it’s about diving fearlessly into my own subconscious to gently reprogram old patterns, release stored stress, and reconnect with my core self. This practice is what makes me emotionally resilient, or as I like to say, ‘bulletproof’. Not because I am hard and unfeeling, but because I am clear, centred, and authentic. It allows me to meet you without my own baggage getting in the way.
I support this with regular breathwork and meditation to calm my nervous system and maintain my inner equilibrium. And I spend time connecting with my sound healing instruments. Tapping my singing bowls isn’t just a practice for sessions. I utilize their pure, resonant frequencies to break up stagnant energy in my own home, creating a peaceful sanctuary for myself and family.
The result of this commitment is a better me, which means a better therapist for you.
By consistently doing my own work, I show up for our sessions fully present. My mind is clear, not cluttered with my own noise, which allows me to practice deep, active listening. I become naturally more observant, picking up on the subtle cues in your body language and energy field that words cannot express. My capacity for true sympathy and understanding has grown immensely.
It means that after a long, full day, I can still welcome you into a space that feels calm, safe, and entirely dedicated to your vulnerability. You will never be a burden on a depleted practitioner; you will be meeting a facilitator who is rested, resourceful, and ready to walk beside you.
This philosophy extends beyond just self-care. It is a profound belief that we cannot take others further than we have been willing to go ourselves. I would not ask you to confront a shadow I haven’t faced. I would not guide you to a place of peace I haven’t visited. My journey inward is what allows me to be a trustworthy guide on yours.
My most profound belief is this: Healing is not about fixing what is broken, because you were never broken to begin with. It is a journey of acceptance, making peace with your story, your feelings, and your past, and learning the profound wisdom each experience holds. My role is not to pour from my cup into yours, but to stand beside you as a guide, helping you remember that you already possess your own endless wellspring of strength, clarity, and peace.