A day full of coaching. A life full of quiet conversions.
A Pause I Didn’t Expect
It was June 19, 2025. The kind of day that stretches you. Coaching from morning to night. Day Four in a long stretch of sessions. By evening, I found myself waiting at Senai Airport after picking up coaches. Standing alone, no kids in sight, no buzzing phones. Just silence. Unscheduled. Undisturbed. A kind of pause I hadn’t planned for, but clearly needed.
The first instinct was guilt. That old voice saying I should be using the time more “productively.” But as the quiet held me, I settled into it. I pulled out my phone, not to scroll, but to reflect. I wrote. I posted. Not because I had to. But because something in me wanted to honor the moment. To catch it, not kill it.
That’s when the metaphor emerged. Not forced. Not clever. Just true. Maybe the stillness wasn’t empty after all. Maybe it was regenerative.
Poop, Posts, and the Power We Flush Away
This might sound ridiculous, but I’ve written reflections from the toilet before. Not because I’m trying to be quirky, but because I realized something. Even that moment isn’t wasteful unless I treat it like it is.
In parts of Southeast Asia, we’ve seen how human and animal waste can be transformed into biogas. Thailand’s floating villages and Malaysia’s rural farms have systems where what used to be flushed now powers homes and heats water. What once smelled like the end is now part of the beginning.
It made me wonder how much of life we flush without thinking. The five minutes between meetings. The tired silence at night. The moments we label as “nothing.”
But if we design for it, these fragments of time, energy, and emotion can be fuel. What we discard can be compost for our next clarity.
My Car Keeps Reminding Me
That night, while heading home, I pulled into a basement car park. My hybrid car coasted downhill. I wasn’t pressing anything. No gas. No brake. Just letting the slope guide us.
And I saw it. On the dashboard, the battery icon began charging. The car, in its own wisdom, was collecting energy even in stillness. Not burning. Not consuming. Just quietly restoring.
Even braking charges you.
This isn’t theory. It’s design. Japan’s trains, Singapore’s MRT, even KL’s new electric buses, they all use regenerative braking systems to recapture what would otherwise be lost. Energy from slowing down gets returned to the system.
And yet, when we slow down, we feel shame. We call it laziness. We feel the pressure to do more, be more, prove more. But what if that very pause is what allows us to store energy for what’s next?
Maybe it’s not about slowing down. Maybe it’s about slowing right.
The Gym and the Power We Never Catch
Another metaphor hit me while working out. I was lifting weights. Sweat dripping. Muscles shaking. And I thought all this power, all this force, and it disappears the moment I let go of the barbell.
In the UK, there are gyms that capture kinetic energy from treadmills and bikes to power lights or charge devices. It’s not widespread yet, especially not in Southeast Asia. But the principle holds. Motion creates energy. The question is do we catch it?
In most gyms, that energy dissipates. In most lives, our efforts do too.
We invest in meetings, in family, in quiet emotional labor. But without systems to convert that energy, we just burn out. The effort is real. But the return is lost. Maybe we’re not exhausted because we’re doing too much. Maybe we’re exhausted because we’re not catching what we already gave.
When One Reflection Ripples Ten Ways
That airport reflection became more than a single post. And it reminded me of how one moment can ripple.
I’ve built a quiet system in my life. A thought becomes a blog. That blog becomes a LinkedIn article. That article becomes a story at bedtime. That story becomes a teaching in a coaching group. A quote. A workshop. A curriculum seed. A part of a book. A prayer.
One reflection. Ten outcomes.
This isn’t about being efficient. It’s about being deliberate. It’s about refusing to waste the slow moment. It’s about designing a life where the smallest thought has room to grow.
Father’s Day in a Language My Father Understands
That same week, I had another article lined up, something about AI and leadership. Ready. Scheduled. Strategic.
But when I looked at the calendar, I saw it. Father’s Day.
The AI article could wait. My father couldn’t. I had written about him recently. About his strength. His quiet consistency. All the things I’ve never told him.
So I took that piece and translated it into Mandarin. The language he reads most fluently. I posted it on Facebook, the only platform he occasionally visits. I didn’t tag him. I didn’t send a message. I just left it there. A gentle offering.
He hasn’t responded. Maybe he never will. But that’s not the point.
For once, I said something I had carried for years. I said it in my language. And I said it in his.
The Pre-Mortem That Brought Me Here
That action didn’t come from inspiration. It came from a practice I’ve started: the pre-mortem.
Instead of asking, “What went wrong?” I ask, “Ten years from now, what might I regret?”
And when I did that, the answer was clear.
I would regret not telling my parents how much they matter. I would regret the silence. I would regret assuming there’s always more time.
So I moved. I posted. I translated. I let the message leave my head and enter the world. Even if nothing changes outwardly, something shifted in me.
Because regret is lighter when we act early.
A Coaching Conversation That Cut Deep
That same week, in one of our coaching debriefs, my strategy lead said something simple. But it landed hard.
“Communication is how you make people feel.”
Not how correct you are. Not how clear your bullet points are. But how they feel when you’re done speaking.
I’ve spent so many years perfecting clarity. But I rarely asked how my words made others feel.
And maybe that’s why some of my best messages still left people feeling unseen.
It’s not enough to be right. We have to be kind. We have to be felt.
The Ducklings That Taught Me More Than Snow
I took my kids on a trip that week. It was supposed to be big. Snow World. First-time experience. Then dinner with their teachers. Then, a surprise: a capybara exhibit. Or so I thought.
We arrived and found nothing but a small petting zoo. No capybaras. Just ducklings. Three kids. RM60. I was frustrated.
But that night, I asked them, “What was your favorite part?”
And they all said, “The ducklings.”
Not the snow. Not the dinner. Not the fancy parts. Just ducklings.
And I realized something. Children don’t measure memories by cost. They measure by joy.
And sometimes, the moments we want to skip become the moments they carry forever.
What I Still Can’t Say Out Loud
There’s something I still struggle with. I don’t know how to express love to my parents.
With my children, it’s easy. With my team, it’s natural. But with my parents, I freeze. I fumble. I avoid.
I know it comes from somewhere. Childhood. Culture. Fear of awkwardness. But I no longer want to hide behind that.
Because this isn’t about blame. It’s about growth. And if I want to lead with depth, I need to soften the part of me that only knows how to be strong.
One of my team said to me, “If you work through this, you’ll be very powerful.”
I believe him. Not because I’ll gain more. But because I’ll finally be whole.
So I’ve begun. Quietly. Slowly. Through counseling. Through writing. Through uncomfortable honesty. Through a love that finally wants to be expressed.
Even Braking Charges You
That day was full. Coaching. Reflection. Ducklings. Healing. And one quiet airport pause.
And here’s what I’m carrying forward.
Nothing is wasted.
Not the stillness. Not the silence. Not the strange metaphors. Not the ducklings. Not even the parts of us we haven’t learned how to love yet.
Even braking charges you.
You don’t need to accelerate all the time to move forward. Sometimes, momentum begins in the moment you stop. Sometimes, rest is the most strategic thing you can do.
And sometimes, the energy you need most is already inside you waiting to be reclaimed.
