Rooted Rhythms

Filling the silence

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 04 Nov 2025 08:45:00 +0000

My older one told me recently that some K-Pop songs were stuck in his head.
Songs he’d heard at school.. catchy, full of words he didn’t even understand and yet he couldn’t stop (wanting to) sing them.

At first, I told him, “Just stop thinking about it.”
But then I caught myself.

What else does he have to fill that space?

Our home is often quiet (because the toddler’s napping).
And when it isn’t, it’s chaos! Blippi, Baby Shark, random YouTube noise.
There isn’t much else for his mind to reach for.

It made me realise how easy it is to focus only on what we don’t want > the noise, the negativity, the influences we’d rather avoid without thinking about what we’re replacing them with.

We tell our kids not to listen to certain songs, not to watch certain shows, not to say certain words…
But are we filling their world with what we do want to take root?

It’s the same for us, isn’t it?
We tell ourselves not to worry, not to burn out, not to compare.
But what do we feed our hearts instead?

So this week, I’m going to be trying something different.
Intentionally filling our space with songs that build, songs that speak peace, truth, and hope. Hopefully it'll be equally catchy 😉

Because silence alone doesn’t shape us.
What fills it does.

When everything screams for your attention

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 26 Oct 2025 14:38:00 +0000

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to take care of myself.

You know how it is, finding balance as a work from home mum is seemingly impossible. It's definitely not going to be the same as that glorified stay at home mum-life that gets all the views on Instagram > pilates sessions, bubble baths, catchups with friends, pickleball... it's in the quiet, real-life kind of way that fits into the small cracks between work, motherhood, the constant to-do list, and the infamous mental load.

Because honestly? Everything around me is screaming for my attention.
And sometimes, I forget that I need attention too.

The kids have been taking turns being sick. Week after week, like a never-ending relay race of viruses, sniffles, and restless nights. I might even be losing track of medicine dosages and who’s taken what meds.

The big kid was sick again on Friday, food poisoning. Dad took him to the doctor that night, and he was prescribed antibiotics, which brought about an added layer of allergic rashes 😔

It was Friday when, really feeling awful, I told him to take a nap. He asked, “How long should I nap?”
I looked at him and said, “Do you want to nap just to nap, or nap to get better?”
He thought about it for a bit and said, “I just want to feel better.”

Same, kid. Same. (He did nap after all... for six hours!)

So I told him, “Mummy wishes she could nap all day too when I’m sick, but it doesn’t work like that for me anymore.”
And I realised how true that was. Somewhere along the line, resting stopped being something I could just do.

Now it feels like there’s always a list running in the back of my mind. Work tasks that need attention. What to feed the kids. What to cook for dinner. Who’s got swim lessons today. Bills that need paying. The list goes on.

Even when I’m tired, I keep going.
And yet, the more I go, the less of me there seems to be left at the end of the day.

So when people talk about “self-care,” or what I do for myself, I can’t help but laugh a little.
If I’m being really honest, my version of self-care these days looks like remembering to drink water, managing to shower before 10 p.m., or baking something sweet just because it makes me happy.

Recently, I tinkered with a granola recipe. Something I could throw together between answering emails and wiping sticky fingers and it turned out to be such a hit at home. Crunchy, golden, comforting.
There was something deeply grounding about it. The smell of toasted oats and honey filled the kitchen, and for a few moments, I could just be.

And maybe that’s what everyday self-care really is... finding those small moments that remind you you’re still here, even when everything feels like too much.

So here it is. My tiny act of care.
Crunchy, comforting, made on the stovetop in about 15 minutes, because that’s about as long as I have before I need to answer messages on Teams again.

15-Minute Stovetop Crunchy Granola

(makes ~2 cups)

📃Print the recipe

Ingredients:
• 1 ½ cups rolled oats
• ½ cup nuts or seeds (I used almond flakes and pumpkin seeds)
• ¼ cup white sugar
• 2 tbsp honey
• 2 tbsp neutral oil
• ½ tsp cinnamon
• Pinch of salt
• ½ tsp vanilla extract

Steps:

In a pan, lightly toast oats. Remove from pan. Toast nuts of choice and remove from pan.
In the same pan, melt butter/oil + sugar + honey over medium heat until bubbly (like caramel).
Stir in oats + nuts + salt + cinnamon. Keep stirring for 5–7 mins until toasty and coated. The sugar will crystallise slightly and form crunchy bits.
Remove from heat, stir in vanilla.
Spread mixture on parchment and let cool completely (it hardens as it cools).
→ For extra crunch, pop it in the oven at 110°C for about 15 mins.
Break it up and enjoy... with milk, yogurt, ice cream, or just straight from the jar.

Notes:

- Pulse ½ the oats for smaller bits (great for toppings)

- Replace cinnamon with cocoa powder for a chocolatey version, or add mini chocolate chips after removing from heat.

- Use golden syrup in place of honey

I know it’s “just granola.”
But sometimes, the smallest things become the biggest comforts.
A warm kitchen. The smell of honey and cinnamon. A spoonful of something that says, you’re allowed to rest, even if it’s just for a moment.

So if you’re reading this in between doing a million other things... hi, I see you. You’re doing a lot. And you deserve small, good things too.

Maybe that’s a nap. Maybe it’s a walk.
Or maybe it’s a jar of homemade granola waiting for you when the house finally falls quiet.

What’s your version of self-care right now, the real, messy, “this is all I can manage” kind?
Share it in the comments. I’d love to hear.

Raising kids in the digital age (or any age, really)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 23 Oct 2025 02:33:00 +0000

My big kid is six. Only six.

And yet here I am, having conversations about brain rot, sex, pornography, and maybe the more subtle one, demons.

I can’t believe I even have to explain why it’s not okay to be singing along to Soda Pop.

These are heavy things for such a little heart. But the truth is, the world doesn’t wait for them to be ready. It barges in, loud and confident, through songs, YouTube shorts, and classroom chatter.

And in the middle of it all, he’s trying to find where he fits.
He’s the only kid in his class who isn’t going to SJKC. Seven out of ten of his classmates will be heading to the same school down the road next year.
He’s the only one who isn’t 100% Chinese.

He feels it, even if he can’t articulate it. That quiet awareness of being different.

And so I ask myself, how do I help him navigate this?

Because it’s not just about what he listens to or sings along with. It’s about belonging, identity, conviction, and the courage to stand firm when you’re the odd one out.

To guide him through that, I’ve had to dig into some memories I thought were long buried — the embarrassment, the rejection, the pain of feeling left out. The times I rebelled. The fear that he might one day repeat my mistakes.
Is it karma? Maybe. Or maybe it’s mercy, giving me the chance to guide him where I once stumbled.

When I think back to my own childhood, I realise I struggled with the same things.
Fitting in. Wanting people to like me. Trying to belong.

The only difference was that my parents were shamelessly protective.
They would meet my schoolmates and tell them off if they thought they were a bad influence.

You can imagine how mortifying to hear...
“You can’t do this, your parents will scold us.”
“You’re a pastor’s kid eh!”

At 13, it was humiliating. I felt left out. Judged. Different. And not in the good way.

But now I see what they were doing. They were guarding my heart until I could learn to guard it myself.
They were teaching me conviction before I even knew the word for it. Until I could learn why those values mattered.

These days, I’m learning that deep, meaningful conversations don’t happen in the middle of a lecture on the way to school.
They happen in the stillness, when I’m tucking him into bed or gently drying his hair after a shower.
Those quiet, unguarded moments in between this and that.

I’m learning to make space for those conversations.
Not by interrogating him about whether he’s participating in "demon worship", but by creating a safe space for open dialogue about pop culture, songs, games, and the things his friends are into.

When he brings up something new, I try to look at it with him.
We’ll read the lyrics, talk about what they mean, and decide together whether it’s something beneficial or not.

I tell him:

“At the end of the day, we want authority. We want our prayers for no bad dreams, no sickness, no fear to carry power. God’s promises are real. But when we open doors to things that compromise that authority, they start to lose their strength.”

Sometimes it’s too much for a six-year-old to grasp fully, but I know the seeds are being planted.

Because whether you’re raising kids in 2025 or 1996, the principles haven’t changed.
It’s still about learning to stand firm in what’s right.
About kindness without compromise.
About belonging without losing yourself.

The world changes. The trends, the screens, the temptations. They just wear different outfits.
But the heart of parenting, and the heart of faith, stays the same.

The domino effect of distraction

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 21 Oct 2025 10:33:00 +0000

Last night, I sat down with one simple goal: to work on big kid’s Mission 7 worksheet (a themed activity from his weekly learning plan).

But because I wanted to make it more connected, I decided to add in some Bahasa Malaysia words from a few worksheets I’d printed a while ago. Then I realised he didn’t have a good visual aid to learn colours in BM, so I thought I’d design a simple poster to go with it.

It was around 8pm, the time I should have been getting him ready for bed. But I told myself it wouldn’t take long. Just a quick design.

Except, while looking for inspiration on Pinterest, I came across so many cute educational prints. And then my brain went, “Hey, what if I make some little inspirational cards too?” Perfect for mornings when I don’t have the energy to write sticky notes for his snack box.

Since I was already sending the colour poster to print, I figured I might as well design a few more helpful ones. Maybe even some motivational ones for myself.

You can imagine how that went.

One thing led to another and suddenly it was 1am. The laptop battery finally gave up before I did.

Then came Tuesday morning. The first workday after a long weekend. The house was loud, my brain foggy, and the rhythm completely off. There were a ton of things on the to-do list, half-finished tasks, an unexpected interruption (okay, I forgot it was already planned) and all the interruptions that come with trying to switch from long weekend-mode to regular week-mode.

And yet, somehow, I still found myself back on Canva, tinkering with the design I should’ve left for another day.

Madness, really. How does this even happen?

Should I get tested for ADHD? (Half joking. Half not.)

But maybe this is just what happens when creative energy collides with parenting, work, and the endless list of things we care about. It’s the domino effect of distraction. One good idea tipping into another until you’re buried under “meaningful” projects that keep you from doing the one thing you actually meant to do.

So I’m learning that I can’t fix the chaos by doing more. Sometimes the only way forward is to pause, breathe, and find rhythm again.

Thinking out loud here about how I could do that (and maybe you can too):

• Catch the first domino. Notice when one task starts spilling into five others. Write the new ideas down and come back later.

• Set small finish lines. One worksheet. One design. One bedtime story. Completion builds calm.

• Create before the chaos. Creative energy is beautiful, but maybe better spent earlier in the day than at midnight.

• Leave room for presence. The designs can wait. The bedtime story can’t.

• Give myself grace. Some nights will spiral. But rhythm always waits for us in the morning.

So here’s to all the parents, makers, and midnight Canva warriors trying to do it all. May we learn to pause before the next domino falls, and find the rhythm that carries us back to what matters most.

Raising children safely

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Oct 2025 03:10:00 +0000

“Mummy, this is gravy, not sauce.”

My firstborn is a bit of a smarty pants. Sometimes it makes me laugh; sometimes it makes me pause. And sometimes, if I’m honest, it makes me worry.

Because I wonder if that same sharp mind and quick tongue will make it hard for him to fit in, the way I sometimes didn’t.

When your mind works at a hundred miles per hour and your heart beats just as fast, you see and feel the world differently. You catch the undercurrents others might miss. You sense tension before it spills over. You want to fix things, but you don’t always know how.

And lately, I’ve found myself holding my breath more than I’d like to admit.
The terrible news from Melaka. The stabbing in a school just minutes away from our home.
I look at my boys and think, how do we keep them safe in a world like this?

Not just safe from harm, but safe in heart.
Safe in mind.
Safe in spirit.

How do you explain to a child that the world isn’t always kind, when you still want him to see it as good?

Sometimes, in the quiet after bedtime, I catch myself praying Psalm 121 under my breath:

“The Lord will keep you from all harm; He will watch over your life.
The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”

I whisper it like a shield, hoping that somehow those words will stretch across oceans and school gates and playgrounds.

And yet, I know I can’t protect them from everything.
So I try to prepare them instead.
To be kind when the world feels cruel.
To speak up when it’s easier to stay silent.
To be the sort of people who bring light, even in dark places.

But I’m still learning that I can’t do this out of fear
.
Because fear makes me want to control.
And control makes me hold on too tight.

My job isn’t to make their path smooth. It’s to help them find steady footing when the ground shifts beneath them.

My eldest reminds me of myself: curious, intense, a little too serious for his age.
My second? I joke that he’s “resourceful because he’s neglected,” but truthfully he’s the free spirit who teaches me to loosen my grip. He climbs before he’s ready, laughs when he falls, and somehow always figures things out.

They’re so different, yet both carry a piece of my heart that walks outside my body every day.

And sometimes that heart aches.
But other times, when I hear their laughter from the next room or see the way they look out for each other, that same heart settles.

Because maybe safety isn’t something we can build around them.
Maybe it’s something we build within them.

And maybe that’s what God’s been teaching me all along; that His protection doesn’t always look like prevention. Sometimes it looks like presence.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” (Psalm 23:4)

So I’ll keep walking.
Keep praying.
Keep believing that goodness still exists.

And when I feel helpless, I’ll remember these words from a song that’s been quietly playing in the back of my mind:

“You hold it all together, in my hands and in my heart.
You hold it all together, God of my present, God of my future.”

Because maybe that’s all I can do. To keep showing up, trusting that the same God who watches over me, watches over them too.

When the routine falls apart

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 14 Oct 2025 04:39:00 +0000

It was one of those mornings.

His heavy, congested breathing the night before already told us what was coming. We’d agreed that he’d be staying home, and even prepped big brother that he’d have to be up earlier so dad could send him to school. The little one’s stuffy nose, the unmistakable heaviness of a small body fighting something off. Another day home from preschool.

We go through this almost every other week. He’s not even two yet, but between preschool colds and the revolving door of viruses, it sometimes feels like we’re on a first-name basis with every strain making the rounds.

So this morning, our usual rhythm fell apart before it even began.

There was no rushing out the door, no quick tidy-up before diving into work. It feels like every time he starts settling back into his routine, another round of sniffles hits. Preschools, I’ve decided, are basically training grounds for immune systems and for parents learning to let go of control.

When my kids get sick, my own rhythm unravels. Everything else takes a back seat, and the house shifts into a random, more chaotic gear. There’s this familiar tension between wanting to keep up with work and wanting to just sit beside them, to hold space for their rest and mine.

I’ve learned to give myself grace on days like these.

I don’t always get it right, but here’s what helps me reset:

Stay calm.
It’s easy to spiral when the to-do list piles up and emails start pinging, but panic helps no one. Taking a breath, even a short one, keeps me grounded enough to do what needs to be done. I've also realised that shouting just causes even more chaos.

Screens are not the enemy.
Working from home with the kids around means the iPad steps in a lot more. I used to feel guilty about it, but I’ve made peace with knowing it’s okay. Educational games, gentle shows, or just something comforting, it gives me space to catch up, and them something familiar to focus on.

Keep it simple.
There’s something freeing about serving plain noodles or rice with soup when everyone’s low on energy. Kids love “grey food,” the less complicated, the better. Simple meals mean we’re fed and sane, and that’s enough.

Make things accessible.
The dining table is my default workstation. I'm set up here while the kids draw, snack, or just play nearby. It keeps me within reach, and them feeling secure. The living area becomes our shared workspace, a mix of productivity and presence.

Cleaning can wait.
Not because it overwhelms me, but because it distracts me. It’s easy to convince myself that putting back the toys or cleaning up the kitchen is urgent, when really, what matters is being present. The dishes can wait. The moments won’t.

Parenthood doesn’t pause for sick days. The work continues, just in different ways. Sometimes it’s holding a boogery child while typing one-handed. Sometimes it’s choosing rest over productivity.

These days remind me that grace isn’t something we earn; it’s something we allow.

So if your little one is sick again and you’re juggling it all with weary eyes and a full heart, know that you’re not alone. Take a deep breath, order that simple lunch, and let the day be what it needs to be.

You’re doing better than you think.

Faith in every season

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Oct 2025 09:26:00 +0000

There was a time when faith, for me, looked different.
Quiet mornings in the car on the way to work. A cup of coffee and an open Bible. Worship music on the drive home as I thank God for the most incredible sunsets I get to witness on my route home.

Those moments were beautiful. But then came new seasons. Work deadlines, school runs, sleepless nights, and noise that never quite fades. And I started to feel guilty that my devotion no longer looked “disciplined.”

It took years to realise that faith doesn’t disappear when the routine changes. It just finds new rhythms.

Some days, it’s an open Bible. Other days, it’s a deep breath between pick-ups, lunch, and homework.
Sometimes it’s whispered prayers while putting the toddler down for a nap, or a small act of grace toward yourself or someone else.

Faith, I’m learning, isn’t about perfection. It’s about awareness.

When I pause long enough to notice, I see that God is present in the pauses too; in the ordinary, in the in-between.

As Anne Lamott wrote, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”
Maybe our connection to God works the same way.

Although my devotional life doesn’t look “structured enough” right now, that’s okay.
It’s not about how polished the routine is, but how open my heart is.

He’s still here, in every season.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 06 Oct 2016 13:51:00 +0000

There's a story in the Bible where a centurion said to Jesus, "say the word and my servant will be healed."

SAY . THE . WORD

Over the last few days, we've been privileged to sit under some of the most amazing speakers and preachers and word after word was spoken. But all of it wouldn't matter if the words you hear doesn't rip apart lies and break down walls that have held you back your whole life. But God spoke the word. The word was said. The ache is gone.

There's a newness that comes with realising the truth that's been there all along.

Worship doesn't hurt anymore. I feel like I've rediscovered my voice. The voice that was slowly being shut down for years to the point that I was silent.

Of taking risks and losing control.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 07:13:00 +0000

Perhaps the biggest thing I've come to realize about life, at least mine, is that I do not have control over everything. I've always tried to be intensely careful and guarded so to avoid taking risks, making mistakes, get hurt, be disliked, etc. - to evaluate the probabilities of everything and weigh the pros and cons before doing even the smallest thing like reading a book.

See, even reading a book can be risky. To spend that much time on something only to find out that the ending of the book is nothing as I expected.

It's been intensely frustrating at times to discover that I know so little and have experienced only so little in life. Stepping out into the great wide world has been quite intense at times and overwhelming, one of the biggest risks I've taken. To try and figure out who are friends and who are foes. Yet, in all this I've never felt the Holy Spirit closer than He has been in the last three months.

So I've given up trying to stay in control of everything. I've not given up on life, I've just given up trying to be the boss of the universe and try to make everything go according to how I want it so that I never fail or get hurt. I've decided it is worth taking risks, even if I have no idea how the end will look like.

Life is a risk. There will be hiccups, failures, mistakes and disappointments along the way and there will be heartbreak but alas it's so good to know that I am a child of a God who knows all, knew all, made all and has everything under control. He's taken the risk of entrusting my life to me but knows full well that it will work out in the end. If all else fails, that's all I need to sleep soundly at night - I am loved and secure.

Yup. xoxo