The Year of Embracing Commitment
After two years of being single, I am finally committing to a relationship.
This reflective piece responds to The Sense of Ending by
. In her essay, Sian points out one of her New Year rituals: picking a word that aligns with her intention for the rest of the year. It almost felt like synchronicity. We’re almost nearing the end of January, and until last week, I was pretty much still letting the chaotic energy of December (blaming it on my Sagittarius placement) roll into 2024. Partying until the sun rose, so much alcohol and cigarettes that I didn’t remember whether it was my fourth or tenth, excessive amount of hedonism that could’ve easily pushed me back into a rabbit hole that I was escaping last year. It’s fun, but when everything fades, where do you go?So, one morning, I sat down and wrote in my notebook, attempting to find my 2024 mantra. Here is a word that emerged: Commitment.
It is a concept that I’ve been thinking about since last year, but I guess I never let it fully materialise on paper. Three months ago, I had the opportunity to sit down with
to discuss my writing endeavours. I shared with Farrah that I’ve been writing love letters, documenting my personal relationships with people that I’ve met in Melbourne. I would post my letters on Instagram (later on Substack too) and produce audiovisual content in the form of short reels. In November, I also produced a one-woman show based on my letters, performed at a small kitschy theatre venue in the heart of the Melbourne CBD. Farrah and I spent an hour brainstorming different approaches and ideas that I could explore to grow as an artist, but something in particular that she said stood out:There’s no point in trying to dig ten different wells at the same time.
She advised me to choose a primary platform and focus on creating content consistently for that platform. Once I’ve built a following, I can use my credentials as a creator and move my practice to different avenues, whatever that may be. I thought about what she said for weeks. It wasn’t the first time I heard such advice.
A well-respected Indonesian comedian, Raditya Dika, once contemplated his career as a writer. In corporate settings, there is a ladder to climb, but in creative work environments, how do you measure your growth? After transitioning from one creative medium to another (from publishing to acting, filmmaking, stand-up comedy, and now content creation), he came to the conclusion that his career trajectory doesn’t move upwards but rather sideways. But still, his success stems from a decade of writing. If anything, the root of his creative avenues is writing. And it must’ve taken so much love and faith to maintain such a dedication.
As a highly empathetic person, love comes pretty easily to me, but faith? Where is my faith? For the longest time, I didn’t realise that I was scared of faith. It’s only recently that I understood why. Because faith comes with acceptance.
Faith is accepting that not everything will go exactly to your expectations, but regardless of what happens in the process, you move forward. The view out of the woods isn’t pretty, and neither is it ugly.
I know exactly where this fear was coming from. When I was 14, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer, and he died two years after his diagnosis. He did fight through, and there were moments when family and friends even forgot that he was ill, because that’s how much of a fighter he was.
I have accepted the fact that he’s physically gone, and the premature experience of the death of a parental figure has shaped my spirituality so strongly that it trickles into my life philosophies and creative practices. I’m almost ashamed to say that if I were to go back and choose a different path, I would reject it because I like who I’ve become. But still, I faced disappointment at such a young age – disappointment that manifested in the most universal thing that we all dread, an irreversible condition with irreversible aftereffects: death. I mean, it wasn’t like losing a lover, friend, or colleague that you can replace. You only get to have one dad, don’t you?
It’s been ten years since we lost my dad, but my mum still keeps his toothbrush and razor on their bathroom sink, with his old belt hanging from the hook behind the door. It’s been ten years, and we’ve never spoken about it. It’s been ten years, and I still find myself crying about him from time to time. I do not ever want to grieve to such a degree again, and perhaps that’s why I fear faith so much.
But digging multiple wells is exhausting. I understand that I need to focus on one well, trusting that it will yield water that trickles to the right places. Isn’t that how you build a healthy and sustainable ecosystem?
Focus and consistency are important elements to hold onto, and they apply to different aspects of your life. For example, dating. For me, being single allows me to explore. But even so, how far does exploration go? I once dated a guy who is determined to stay partnerless for the rest of his life. “But isn’t it nice to have someone to cuddle at night?” I asked him, with the innocence of someone who didn’t understand the luxury of having a queen-sized bed all to yourself. “Well, I’ll just keep changing girlfriends then,” he shrugged. At some point, we are required to make a choice. It’s like choosing a movie on Netflix – you either stick with a choice or shut off your device altogether.
A friend once argued that too much freedom equals boredom. I disagreed with him, believing that having options was a privilege. After two years, I changed my mind. Without the right wisdom, freedom is a dangerous rabbit hole.
In early 2022, I broke off a long-term relationship that started when I was 19. I didn’t realise that the relationship had taken away the opportunities to discover myself. So after separating from my ex-partner, I was essentially a newborn baby. Not realising how vulnerable I was, I started using dating apps to “see what’s out there”. What followed was probably the worst period of my life, but also the best. I fell in love with a boy who only saw me as an option – much like me, we believed that having multiple options could be an enriching experience, except I was willing to give up my freedom to work it out with him. A year later, I was relieved to learn that I wasn’t in love. This guy was helping me see Melbourne (and myself) from a fresh perspective. He took me dancing, we watched live gigs, and we visited creative scenes in different suburbs. He introduced new experiences into my life, which revealed my inner artist. It almost felt like he was playing the mother role and when I learned that he might leave me for another person, I wasn’t ready to let him go, simply because I didn’t believe in my capabilities to experience those things on my own.
If there’s one good thing that came out of our connection, it was the visual image of my dream home. A home studio that is both metaphorical and physical.
Every night, I would imagine walking into a cosy space, with vintage furniture, incense smell in the air, a lot of plants and flowers, musical instruments (I don’t play any but I would love my guests to do so), warm food on the dining table because I was raised with food as our main love language, a record player, and a corner where I can make art to help those around me. And anyone who needs a home is welcome at my home.
Initially, I believed I needed a partner to build that home. After the boy who broke my heart, I went on a dating rampage, but none of the boys stuck around; some of them left the morning after and never returned. After a series of experiences that could be a separate essay on its own, I realised that I didn’t need to wait for anyone to build that dream home. If anything, that home has always been me. Upon this realisation, I broke down. How could I continue to make choices that disrespected myself in the hope of getting respect? How could I dishonour myself, the only home that I had?
It took harsh reality checks from my friends and at least ten therapy sessions to finally apologise and forgive myself. I started getting my life together towards the end of 2023. I had the opportunity to stage a one-woman show, I joined a community of performers in Melbourne, and I quit a job that brought back my trauma from cancer. I also made sure I stayed committed to family and friends who were equally committed to me. For the first time in my life, I cut off a friend of 8 years without saying any farewell words. I acknowledged our memories and her relevance in my past, but I knew she wasn’t good for me anymore. I trusted that I would meet new friends, better friends. I’ve also accepted the fact that unfortunately, she won’t be the last person I have to cut off. I was doing pretty okay until December arrived, bringing all the party invitations and past lovers – the rabbit hole that was closing up started to reopen again.
Commitment. I could feel my handwriting staring back at me. It didn’t take me long to get back on track. Last week, I signed up for two physical theatre workshops, finished a book that I started months ago, and reached out to a friend to propose a collaboration. Until today, I am still riddled with fear and anxiety, but at the same time, I have faith that I can handle whatever comes to me. I have faith that even though healing isn’t a smooth journey, I will continue to make choices that nourish me. And when everything fades, I go home.
This year, I’m committed to coming home to me, and only me, each time.
What’s your word of the year? Share your experience in the comment section below!