Back To My Unfamiliar Familiar Home

When I was nine, a group of girls at school decided I was their favourite target.

They loved to make fun of me, always finding new ways to get under my skin.

One day, after yet another elaborate prank… I decided: I’d had enough.

Furiously, I marched to my room, shut the door, and got to work.

With marker pens and highlighters I’d borrowed from my sister’s stationery stash, I sketched out the most detailed operation a nine-year-old could imagine.

There were diagrams, colour coded schedules, and even a timeline of their lunch spots, painstakingly gathered through days of observations.

The plan was flawless — at least in my head.

Inspired by Codename: Kids Next Door, it involved decoy notes to confuse them, water balloons as the ultimate humiliation weapon, and an escape route that ended in my triumph.

It was the kind of genius that would make secret agents weep. Except, of course, I wasn’t a genius — I was nine.

I sat back, admiring my masterpiece & convinced myself victory was near.

But by recess, someone found my plan, laughed, and handed it to the teacher. My mission was over before it began.

I was summoned to the principal’s office, my parents across from me, and my plans spread out like a crime scene.

“If this is what he’s planning at nine,” she said, shaking her head…

“I don’t want to imagine what they’ll try at fifteen. A bank robbery, maybe?”

My parents nodded solemnly, playing the role of concerned guardians.

But the moment we got home, my dad turned to me, grinning & then almost bursting out in laughter & muttered something I’ll never forget:

“If you can plan a bank robbery at nine, just imagine what you’ll pull off by twenty-five. You’re different, so use that genius wisely.”

That moment stayed with me.

It rewired how I saw the world.

I learnt that I was different.

I learnt that life wasn’t meant to be colour-coded or neatly scheduled or a checklist to follow. It was meant to be messy, chaotic, and gloriously full of surprises.

I learnt that I thrive when I can embrace chaos — thinking outside the box (or even maybe tearing it apart, and using the pieces to build something my own)

Which is precisely why I moved back home to Kuala Lumpur — a city that, while (very) imperfect, has always embraced its own kind of beautiful chaos.

The decision wasn’t easy — I was leaving behind eight years of a life I had built as it unfolded.

But in the end, it came down to three simple truths:

1. The Growing Restlessness

It started as an itch — barely noticeable at first, just a quiet sense that something was missing.

Life in Singapore had a very comforting rhythm — efficient, structured, and predictable.

Things just work, and they work wonderfully.

It was the kind of place where everything worked exactly as it should, and for a while, that was enough.

Or so I thought.

But the itch grew stronger, harder to ignore, until it felt like I was trapped in a loop I couldn’t escape.

The predictability, once reassuring, began to weigh on me.

There were no surprises, no moments that made me pause and wonder.

It wasn’t the routine itself — if you know me, you’ll know I love routines!

It was the lack of choice, the sense that there was no way to break out of it.

Every day felt like a rerun of the last episode, perfectly orchestrated and efficient, but lacking in spontaneity or substance.

If you’ve lived in Singapore long enough, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

The landscapes themselves mirrored the predictability.

HDB, HDB, bus stop.
HDB, HDB, MRT.
HDB, HDB, food court.

It felt like walking through a perfectly organized simulation — efficient, practical but endlessly repetitive.

No matter where you went, it was a variation of the same theme.

It brought to mind a line from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, a play I studied in my fantastic English Literature class, where the main character George says, “Ants, ants! The ants will take over the world.”

That’s how it felt sometimes — like everything was too uniform and everything was just too perfect.

After a while, I started to feel like one of those ants — or worse, an NPC in a video game.

You know, one of those background characters programmed to follow a set path, repeating the same lines, doing the same tasks.

Life was moving, but I wasn’t driving it.

I was just there. Simply, existing.

2. The Blueprint

Well, it wasn’t only the restless of monotony that got to me — it was also the bigger picture.

Life in Singapore didn’t just have a rhythm; it had a script.

Or better yet, a blueprint.

Everyone is expected to follow this blueprint.

Get good grades.
Go to a local college (NUS/NTU/SMU).
Graduate.
Get a job at a reputable SG company.
Get married.
Apply for a BTO.

Don’t get me wrong — it’s a tried & tested system that works.

Even if you perform it at a semi-average level, it still pays off.

It’s that good.

If follow the blueprint, it rewards you generously for doing so.

But as I’ve already established, I couldn’t be nudged onto a conveyor belt and follow a path I didn’t create myself.

I was drawing up bank robbery plans at nine.

Did I really expect I could conform to this?

A life where every step was almost pre-determined, mapped out like the MRT lines, leaving little room for detours or improvisation?

My initial plan was simple: go through the blueprint.

Get good grades, graduate, land the stable job, save up capital, and finally once I had “made it” — start my own business.

It seemed logical, like a responsible way to balance ambition with security.

But somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t do both.

I couldn’t follow the path, tick all the boxes, and then decide to break away.

That safety net, as tempting as it was, felt like a trap.

Because here’s the thing: if you want to catch the biggest & juiciest fish, you have to get your hands dirty.

You can’t stay on the shore, clean and comfortable, hoping it will swim your way.

Entrepreneurship (or indie hacking for me) was the same. It demanded all my grit & willingness to dive into the unknown, even if it meant failing spectacularly.

I didn’t want to look back one day and regret not taking the hard road.

I didn’t want to find myself standing at the end of a life paved with roads of what-ifs.

As Robert Frost wrote:

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by.
And that has made all the difference.”

I first heard this line in Dead Poets Society, a film that left a deep mark on me.

The teacher in the film inspires his students by embracing and teaching the philosophy of carpe diem — seize the day: to live fully and defy convention.

It wasn’t just about taking risks — it was about living a life true to yourself, even if it meant going against the grain.

And so, I chose the harder, messier path.

The one without a safety net, where risks and failures weren’t just possibilities — they were certainties.

Because I finally came to understand something crucial: success isn’t just about reaching a destination.

It’s about the journey — the experiments, the detours, the resilience you build along the way.

Just like my nine-year-old bank robbery plans, the willingness to take risks, even if it means getting caught (which I definitely did).

3. The Need for Change

Ultimately, taking risks also means knowing when it’s time for a change.

When the path you’re on, stops challenging you, stops making you grow, it’s a sign to step off and find a new one.

And for me, that moment had arrived.

Like a bird that had ventured out to grow its wings, I realized it was time to take flight in a new direction.

Even if, as ironic as it sounds, that direction meant coming back home.

Because sometimes, the place you need to grow next is the one you left behind.

Some of my close friends didn’t realize how big this change was for me.

From the outside, it might not have seemed like much — after all, Kuala Lumpur was close, and I’d come back often for visits.

But this time, coming back wasn’t about geography — it was about a shift in mindset.

This wasn’t just a return to where I grew up.

It was a leap into the… next version of myself.

Coming back felt like stepping into something unfamiliar and familiar all at once — a chance to reimagine what “home” and “growth” truly meant.

It wasn’t about rejecting Singapore either. I actually liked Singapore — a lot.

But this decision wasn’t about a city — it was about me.

It was about embracing the change that was already happening inside me, the person I was becoming, and the life I wanted to create.

At the time, I was reading This Is How You Heal by Brianna Wiest, and one passage stood out:

“One day, you’ll look back and the steps will add up to a path that is clear.

One day, you’ll understand that failure is not taking a misstep; it’s never going anywhere, because you’re so afraid of getting it wrong.”

That’s when I knew — this was my moment.

Not just a decision, but the decision.

A moment to stop hesitating and start stepping forward.

To embrace not just the change, but the person I was finally ready to become.

Conclusion

Coming back home is not the end of my story — it was the beginning of a new chapter.

To take all the battle scars home, a chance to turn my growth into something meaningful.

Because growth doesn’t always come from chasing something far away.

Sometimes, it comes from finding your way back to where it all started and realizing this:

I wasn’t searching for a place.

I was searching for myself.

And now, I’m finally here.
(with no plans to rob any bank this time).

Thank you for reading.

~Tim