The Paradox That Builds Legacy

What Really Matters—At the End?

It was the 2nd of June, 2025. A national holiday, Agong’s Birthday, had given the country a collective pause. For most, it was a chance to sleep in or catch up on rest. But for me, this day carried the weight of something more intentional. It wasn’t about doing more. It was about doing what matters. Not just for myself, but for the people entrusted to me.

There was no agenda. No grand plan. Just a spontaneous decision to make the day meaningful—a day well lived. And it started with a simple principle I’ve held closely: nothing is worth achieving at the expense of family and health. But today expanded that principle. Once your family is loved, it cannot stop there. Real love overflows. And when it overflows, it doesn’t dilute—it multiplies.

A deeper truth started forming in me: meaning often disguises itself as ordinary. The quiet moment you almost cancelled. The quick outing you almost dismissed. The lunch that became laughter. This was one of those days where I realized—legacy doesn’t require loudness. It requires presence.

Capybaras, Cornflakes, and the Economics of Love

As we prepared for our outing, a thought kept resurfacing—something rooted in my university days. During my foundation year, we studied economics in two parts: microeconomics and macroeconomics. Micro was all about the individual—households, behaviors, patterns of supply and demand. Macro was about the collective—governments, national policy, fiscal shifts.

I remember how enamored I was by microeconomics. It gave language to behavior I had observed my whole life but never fully understood. Concepts like price elasticity, assumptions, and decision-making were suddenly visible everywhere. But what stood out most was the role of assumptions. Every model in economics begins with one: “Assume X, then Y.”

At the time, it felt logical, even empowering. But as I grew older, I began to realize that assumptions don’t just shape theories. They shape how we parent, lead, and love. They quietly shape culture. They whisper what is “realistic,” even when reality is still unfolding.

I started noticing how easily assumptions creep into our lives. Like when I automatically assume my son won’t eat dinner, so I prepare a backup bowl of cornflakes. It’s practical—but it’s also predictive. And sometimes, that assumption locks him (and me) into a pattern that might no longer serve us.

The Trap—and Power—of Assumptions

Assumptions can help simplify complexity. But they can also become prisons of prediction.

We assume people don’t change. We assume helping others will cost us too much. We assume caring deeply will expose us. We assume what didn’t work yesterday won’t work today. We assume small acts have small impact.

But what if assumptions are what’s keeping us from deeper connection, from true creativity, from legacy?

Some assumptions protect. Others prevent. When we assume giving love will deplete us, we start withholding it. When we assume others won’t understand us, we stop trying to share. And when we assume that only the big, loud, or visible actions matter, we miss the miracles unfolding in quiet corners of life.

RM20, One Duckling, and a Simple Thank You

In the afternoon, we visited a small petting zoo. Entry was RM20 per person. I hesitated. Johor Zoo is only RM5—with more animals. But something in me surrendered.

My youngest son ended up spending nearly the entire time playing with one duckling. Not the exotic animals. Not the main attractions. Just that one duckling.

On paper, it made no sense. But as we left, he ran up and said, “Thank you, Daddy. This was the best party ever.”

That moment redefined value. It reminded me that ROI in parenting isn’t measured in logic. It’s measured in joy. The RM20 wasn’t for access. It was for connection.

This moment also challenged my old assumption: that return on investment is about output. No. In life, the greatest return is often emotional, not empirical. What matters is what lasts. And joy? Joy lingers.

Micro Is the New Macro

We often divide leadership into two categories: macro and micro. Big vision versus detailed execution. Systems versus presence. But today reminded me: legacy lives in both.

Macro collapses when micro is neglected. Micro becomes stagnant when divorced from vision. We say, “Just love your family” or “Focus on the nation.” But it isn’t either-or. It’s both.

At Snow World, my parents—normally hesitant to spend—lit up when they realized seniors enter for free. They laughed. They plotted future outings. They felt included. That moment felt more powerful than any keynote speech.

This was more than a family outing. It was a practice in perspective: the way we treat the smallest relationships is the way we shape the largest legacies. The micro affects the macro.

But what touched me most today wasn’t my children. It was the teachers.

The Teachers Who Taught Me Today

Ms. J messaged me that night. It wasn’t formal. It was heartfelt:

“Thanks for dinner… but what I’m most grateful for is that one of my goals for today was to break the ice between me and Aden. And honestly, the outing made such a big difference. There were no awkward moments—we talked, we even played together.”

She didn’t just come as a teacher. She came as a bridge builder. A reconciler. A quiet cultivator of trust.

Earlier, another teacher, Ms. Y, had texted me:

“I promised him to buy a SpongeBob if he speaks 5 sentences in Mandarin during the camp.”

She didn’t have to do that. But she believed in the growth of a child—enough to follow through on a quiet promise no one else heard. That’s not just pedagogy. That’s purpose.

What moved me wasn’t their strategy. It was their sincerity. These teachers had their own lives, their own issues, yet they chose to show up—wholeheartedly—for the children.

And I realized: this is the kind of leadership the world needs. Not just more leaders who command. But more humans who love.

Start Small. Stay Faithful. Think Bigger.

I didn’t launch a new initiative today. I didn’t build a new system. But I brought my parents. I paid for a duckling. I held space for joy. I watched teachers quietly show up for the children we serve.

I watched joy unfold one moment at a time. Not through spotlight moments, but through quiet, faithful ones. Not through logic, but through presence. Not through perfect plans, but through purposeful pauses.

I assumed this day would be small. It wasn’t. It was sacred.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The real lie isn’t that we don’t care. It’s that we’ve assumed we have to choose between our own world and the wider world. That love must be rationed. That helping others must come at the expense of our own.

But today taught me otherwise.

You can bring your parents and invite your team. You can serve one duckling and still ripple into something larger. You can think big and act small—and let that be enough.

Legacy isn’t built in boardrooms or on stages. It’s built in ducklings, cornflakes, text messages, and free Snow World tickets.

And if so—we’re already on our way.