When the Routine Changes, Let the Anchor Stay

It was a humid Saturday morning in Johor. July 26, 2025. My wife was still in her confinement period, which meant our family’s routine had shifted again. Mornings that once felt familiar were now shaped by earlier wakeups, more errands, and evening drives to visit her. I didn’t complain. In fact, I found a strange peace in the shift. I’ve learned that routines must serve the purpose, not the other way around. If the purpose gets lost in the comfort of routine, then we’ve missed the point.

Yesterday evening as I drove the kids to their piano class, a phrase bubbled to the surface. It wasn’t loud. But it struck deep.

“I speak the loudest when I don’t speak at all.”

Eann, my six-year-old, looked at me curiously. “What do you mean, dad?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just let it sit. Later that day, I would show him what I meant.

But even before that conversation unfolded, the reflection had already begun. As a child in Malaysia, I once transitioned from an afternoon school session to a morning one in upper primary. It was a tough adjustment, but the school’s operation was the anchor, not me. So I adapted. Years later, I’d learn the same lesson at the JSSEZ advancement. When systems advance, it’s not the system that bends to us. We’re the ones who must realign. AI, leadership, governance, the world won’t wait for us to catch up. Change is not always bad. But clarity is always necessary.

I’ve lived long enough to realize this: the world doesn’t revolve around us. And when we stop demanding that it should, we begin to lead differently.

Snack Packs, Piano Lessons, and the Loudest Silence

Before their piano class, I brought the boys to Family Mart. We were rushing, so I told them to quickly choose a snack. Something real, not too sweet, not too processed. Something joyful yet not too harmful. A little treat that balanced both health and delight.

They listened and chose well. I promised them, “After class, we’ll come back. You’ll have more time to choose.”

I kept that promise.

At 7pm, after their lesson, we returned. This time, no rush. They browsed slowly, selecting what they wanted. It wasn’t about the food, it was about the rhythm and memory that matters. The feeling of being seen, heard, honored. The feeling of being loved without being told.

As we got back in the car, I asked them gently, “Do you feel loved?”

They paused. “Yes,” they said.

“How do you know?”

“Because… you really care for us.”

And that’s when I reminded them:

“I didn’t say I love you. I didn’t tell you I care. But you knew. That’s what I mean when I say I speak the loudest when I don’t speak at all.”

It’s not the declarations. It’s the decisions, a simple promises kept and the “inconvenient love”. The small, consistent actions.

That is what speaks loudest.

Gym Floors and Young Dreams

Just a few months back, I brought a young man I mentor to the gym. He had been journeying with me for a while and during one of our sessions, he told me, “I want to be a motivational speaker.”

His eyes were hopeful. Fire in his voice. He was serious.

I smiled. “I used to want that too,” I told him. I shared how at age 12, I once listened to a monk speak about life’s meaning, it stirred something in me. I remember writing down what he said. I didn’t know why it impacted me then, but now I understand. It was a seed and an awakening.

In my late 20s, when I read The Purpose Drive Life, that seed grew. I had started a family and began ministering. The timing aligned. The call deepened.

But I warned him gently: “Wanting to be a speaker isn’t enough.”

I told him something that surprised even me as I said it.

“There are people who’ve decided to work with me, to partner with our school or support our projects before I’ve even spoken to them. They just say, ‘I’ve heard of you.’”

They don’t know me. But they trust something.

That’s when I realized: I’ve fulfilled my dream of being a motivational speaker without speaking.

Because my life was already speaking for me.

Reputation, presence, integrity. They speak long before words ever do.

When Words Are Loud but Lives Are Quiet

I’ve also seen the other side.

Brilliant speakers, charismatic voices, commanding stages, and yet, behind the curtain something didn’t align. I’ve sat with leaders who mesmerized a room with their storytelling, but afterwards, spoke words that shocked me. Complaints, blame, self-pity. Victimhood masked as vulnerability.

It’s not that they were bad people. Many were gifted. But somewhere along the way, their actions stopped matching their words. They chose to be themselves instead of becoming who they were called to be. That is a tragedy because your words may move a crowd, but your life is what builds a legacy.

A misaligned life whispers one message:

“I know how to speak well… but I haven’t lived it yet.”

And that whisper gets louder than any microphone.

The Mirror of Malaysian Politics

It was still Saturday, July 26, 2025, when a headline caught my eye: calls for Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim to step down. A rally in the capital had been organized under the familiar banner of protest, this time led by opposition voices citing economic pressure, dissatisfaction over subsidy reductions, and concerns about governance.

I’m not one to wade into politics lightly. But I do pay attention to patterns. And this time, the pattern felt disturbingly familiar.

The criticisms were loud, but the reasons felt thin. A hundred-ringgit handout. A six-sen drop in fuel subsidy. Valid frustrations, perhaps. But beneath them, what worried me more was the spirit behind the movement, an urgency to tear down without a clear intention to rebuild. There was no alternative leader proposed, no clear direction forward. Just noise.

And this isn’t new. We’ve seen it again and again in Malaysian politics, the cycle of elevation and rejection.

I’ve always carried a degree of respect for Tun Dr. Mahathir. His contributions to Malaysia’s development are undeniable. From national infrastructure to economic resilience, his fingerprints are everywhere, the Twin Towers, Putrajaya, the national car. He steered us through the Asian financial crisis. And for that, I believe honour is due.

But even honour must sit beside honest observation.

What’s hard to ignore is the pattern that followed. Every Prime Minister after Mahathir: Abdullah Badawi, Najib Razak, Muhyiddin Yassin, and now Anwar Ibrahim was, at one point, someone he supported, and later, someone he opposed. Each was once seen as a successor. Each, in time, became a disappointment.

With the exception of his wife, perhaps, at least, is something to be grateful for. A man who remains faithful to his family still has something of value left to teach the rest of us.

But again, the concern here isn’t about political power. It’s about leadership posture. It’s about what we do when influence shifts. Do we pass the baton? Or do we sabotage the next runner?

In times like these, I find myself asking the harder questions.

Are we driven by the courage to build or the bitterness to break?

Are we holding on to purpose or simply defending a fading legacy?

Because when leadership becomes about preserving control, rather than cultivating the next generation, something sacred is lost.

And that loss… is felt far beyond the halls of power.

The War Behind the Sofa

That evening, as the day wound down, we gathered once again at the confinement center. It was our small attempt to hold on to normalcy in a season that had upended our usual routines. Movie night had become a weekly ritual, simple, familiar, something for the boys to look forward to.

But even rituals don’t guarantee peace.

A disagreement broke out between the kids over what to watch. One wanted The Flash. Eann was adamant about SpongeBob. What started as a difference in preference slowly escalated into full-blown frustration. Words were exchanged, tempers flared and in the end, Eann stormed off and hid behind the sofa, his small frame curled into silent protest.

Later, I sat beside him. The movie played on in the background, but my attention was on something else, a heart in need of shepherding.

“Eann,” I asked gently, “why were you so angry just now?”

He hesitated before answering. “Because I didn’t get to watch what I wanted.”

I nodded. “That’s fair. But… did you notice what you did get tonight?”

He looked up, confused.

“You had time with Mummy. Time with your brothers. A warm meal. Snacks. A cozy place to sit and a movie to share. Not everyone gets that, and yet in that moment, we forgot.”

There was a pause.

Then I told him something I’ve had to remind myself many times: “The opposite of gratefulness… isn’t anger. It’s forgetfulness.”

That quiet moment lingered in my heart long after he returned to the living room.

Because this is how it often starts. Not with war, but with something much smaller. A forgotten blessing, a missed perspective and A narrowing of vision that blinds us to what we already have.

History echoes this pattern. World War II didn’t begin with armies; it began with a bullet. One shot, one trigger, andnd then a chain of forgetting of peace, humanity, and the fragile beauty of coexistence.

Whether it’s two brothers fighting over cartoons or entire nations caught in cycles of retaliation, the root often remains the same. We forget what’s good. We forget who we are. We forget what matters, and when we forget, we fight.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

There’s something I’ve learned across parenting, leadership, and life purpose. It’s this: leadership isn’t proven when we articulate ourselves well. It’s revealed when our lives speak louder than our words ever could.

When I told Eann, “I speak the loudest when I don’t speak at all,” it wasn’t a metaphor for children. It was a conviction shaped by years of trying, failing, and realigning. That night, he understood not because I explained it perfectly, but because he felt it, and that’s the point. Leadership that must be explained is often not yet embodied.

Children don’t remember what we lecture, they remember what we live. Teams won’t follow what we say in strategy meetings, they follow what we model when nobody is watching. This is where integrity finds its voice.

That same evening, I thought of the young man I’ve been mentoring at the gym. He once shared with me his dream of becoming a motivational speaker. I understood the desire. I was twelve when a monk’s message first sparked my curiosity about life’s deeper purpose. But over time, I’ve come to see that impact doesn’t begin with a microphone. It begins with your daily choices. You don’t need a stage to speak. In the end, your life becomes your message. And your reputation will either open doors before you say a word… or quietly close them before you ever arrive.

Whether we realise it or not, we are always speaking. We speak through the way we respond to stress. Through how we carry ourselves when tired. Through the promises we keep, and the ones we let slide. Silence has a sound. Consistency has a voice. And every quiet decision to love inconveniently, to prioritise purpose over comfort, to show up even when it’s hard, these are the loudest messages we will ever deliver.

The world doesn’t need more noise. It needs more depth. It needs anchored leaders. Not just articulate ones. Leaders who don’t need to shout because their lives are aligned.

Legacy Is Built in the Margins, Not the Spotlight

I’ve often said that leadership isn’t about being ahead. It’s about being aligned. Aligned with truth. With people. With purpose.

The more we grasp for control, the more we reveal our fear. The more we cling to our routines, the more we forget what those routines were originally meant to serve. That’s why I keep coming back to this simple idea: the opposite of gratefulness is not anger. It’s forgetfulness. When we forget what we have, we begin to feel entitled: Entitlement then turns into blame; blame becomes inertia, and over time, inertia leads to decline.

That’s why the smallest acts often matter most. Choosing the right snack for your child. Showing restraint in an argument. Taking a pause before reacting. Staying consistent even when no one acknowledges it. These are the things no one claps for, but everyone feels. These are the moments that quietly form our legacy.

Because legacy isn’t built during big speeches or dramatic gestures. It’s built in the margin, the space between tasks, between meetings, between the visible and the invisible. That is where leaders are forged. That is where children feel safe. That is where teams find stability. And that is where the sacred meets the ordinary.

The Silent Legacy

So let me ask a different kind of question.

Not what position you hold, not what vision you’ve cast, not even what cause you champion.

But this: if no one ever heard your explanation, would your life still speak?

If the microphone were taken away, would your actions still carry meaning?

If you never again got the chance to explain your “why,” would people still feel it in how you live?

That, to me, is the essence of legacy. It is not shaped in moments of applause. It is formed in moments of alignment. It doesn’t require volume. It requires depth.

In the end, I hope that’s what my children carry forward. Not because I said it, but because I lived it, and if that becomes the one thing they remember, that we speak the loudest when we do not speak at all. Then perhaps, that will be enough.