A Reflection on Time, Regret, and Real Victory

The Unexpected Power of a Slowed-Down Day

It is hard to believe that Arielle’s birthday was already more than a month ago. Time has moved so quickly since 30 June, and now it is August. When I mentioned it to my mentor and sent him the reflection in one take, even he was shocked. “Has it really been a month?” he asked. It struck me then: time does not slow down for anyone, no matter how much we want it to. And yet, the more I attempt to speed up, the faster time seems to vanish.

This irony has sat with me for a while. I used to believe that speeding up was the solution to time slipping through my fingers. But lately, I have begun to wonder if I have been approaching it all wrong. Perhaps time does not need to be tamed, but seen differently. During the Movement Control Order (MCO), two years passed in what felt like a moment. But those years were rich, filled with stillness, reflection, and intention. That kind of slow, intentional living gave space for growth.

I found myself yearning for that again. So today, I decided that I would slow down. I would take time with my children. And what followed was a day that, despite its imperfections, ended not in exhaustion, but in victory.

The Street You Drive Past Holds the Wisdom You Have Missed

Yesterday, I spent three hours trying to sort out Arielle’s birth certificate. I failed. Today, I returned for a third attempt, this time with my wife and all of my children. We were finally successful. For this single child, I had put in more effort than I did for the birth registration of our first three children combined.

As I held the document in my hands, it felt different. It felt more precious, not because I loved this child more, but because I had worked harder to obtain it. Biologically and psychologically, this makes sense. The more effort we invest in something, the more value we assign to it. The struggle had imprinted meaning onto the outcome.

My wife’s perspective, as usual, added another layer of insight. She looked at me calmly and said, “Just think of these few days as a tour.” At first, I found her tone frustrating. But eventually, I saw the wisdom in it. A vacation, after all, is simply going somewhere unfamiliar. In many ways, that is exactly what we did. We went places we do not usually go. We slowed down. We walked.

At one point, I needed to print a utility bill to prove my address. It was already evening, and most printing shops had closed. I walked from shop to shop, asking if anyone could help. I must have walked three kilometers in search of a working printer. What began as a stressful task turned into something else entirely.

I found myself walking through Johor Bahru not as a commuter or a business owner, but as a pedestrian. As a tourist. It was the golden hour. The sun was setting. The air was cool. I looked around and saw things I had never noticed before: burnt rooftops, street vendors, pedestrians moving with intention. I walked by the river, a route I typically rush past in a car. But today, I saw the city for what it was. Beautiful. Alive. Full of detail.

That moment of walking, with no agenda except to complete one small task, slowed down everything. It gave me the space to breathe, to notice, to appreciate. My wife was right. It was a vacation. A vacation that cost me nothing. And yet, it gave me so much.

In the end, how we experience life is less about the events themselves and more about the lens through which we see them. Frustration or vacation. Suffering or perspective. It is, ultimately, a state of mind. And while others may argue that it is naïve to enjoy such moments, I believe otherwise. Choosing joy is not denial. It is discipline.

The Kind of Regret That Does Not Hurt

Later that evening, another unexpected moment arrived. Around 5 p.m., in the middle of a meeting, I thought to check with my agent regarding our previous helper’s return to Indonesia. I asked casually whether she had already been sent back. To my surprise, he said no.

Immediately, I dropped everything. I packed my things, picked up my children, and met my wife. A few weeks ago, when we bid farewell to our helper, the children had missed the chance to say goodbye because they were staying with their grandparents. I did not want them to miss it again.

We abandoned our dinner plans with extended family and rushed to town, hoping to catch her one last time. But we were too late. She had already boarded the ferry. The agent, aware of our effort, kindly video called us so that we could at least see her off virtually.

That moment carried a deep lesson for me. A lesson about regret.

I have come to believe that there are two kinds of regret in life. The first is the regret that comes from inaction: knowing you could have done something but did not. The second is the regret that arises even after you have done everything in your power, but circumstances still turned out differently from what you hoped. The first is painful and bitter. The second, although still disappointing, brings peace.

This was the second kind of regret. I had done everything I could. I had taken action immediately. I had adjusted my schedule and brought my family. We did not succeed in meeting her physically, but we succeeded in honouring our intention. And for that, I feel no pain. Only peace.

That same evening, I received news that I did not make the Top 30 finalists for the Ten Outstanding Young Malaysians (TOYM) award. Again, there was no disappointment. Only curiosity. I wondered briefly what had gone wrong, but I felt no emotional weight. In fact, I felt relieved. Attending the event would have required a flight to Kuching. And just earlier that day, we had received news that we won the Sustainable Development Award, an award that carries deeper value for our organisation.

TOYM recognises individuals. SDA honours institutions. For someone who has built Stellar not to glorify self but to serve a mission, this distinction mattered. I did not win the personal recognition. But I did win something else. Something better. A legacy worth continuing.

As I looked back on the day, I realised that it was not the absence of challenges that made it victorious. It was something else. Something quieter.

Slow Down. Strengthen Up.

Every Tuesday morning, we begin the day with a leadership devotion. Today’s reading covered Exodus 5:1 to 12:37, a long passage detailing the confrontation between Moses and Pharaoh, the ten plagues, and eventually, the Exodus.

Reading it through the lens of leadership, I saw something powerful. God did not just deliver the people of Israel. He formed a leader in the process. At first, Moses resisted his calling. God then allowed Aaron to support him. In the early plagues, Aaron held the staff while Moses watched. Then they worked together. Finally, Moses acted alone while Aaron watched.

This, to me, reflected a leadership formation model I now understand deeply: 带、陪、放.

• 带 (dài) means to bring someone along. As a leader and father, I brought my children along for these mundane tasks, allowing them to witness how I respond to frustration, delay, and bureaucracy.
• 陪 (péi) means to accompany. I walked alongside my wife, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, as she reframed the situation with calm wisdom and shared presence.
• 放 (fàng) means to release. I released the outcomes I could not control: the missed farewell, the award result, the flow of the day. I found peace not by grasping, but by letting go.

This is not just a leadership tactic. It is a philosophy. A way of being. The same model that grew Moses into a leader is growing me, through each unexpected interruption and unwelcome detour.

And in that, I am not weakened. I am strengthened.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

People often think of victory as the absence of trouble. A clean day. A perfect plan executed without disruption.

But I no longer believe that.

Victory is not defined by whether everything goes your way. It is measured by how strong you stand when it does not. It is not the absence of germs, but the strength of your immune system. My wife remains healthy not because she lives in a bubble, but because her body knows how to respond.

Today was not a smooth day. But I walked through it with peace. I accompanied those I love. I released what I could not control. I slowed down. And somehow, I grew stronger.

That, to me, is leadership. That, to me, is victory.