Fifty Years of Becoming

I'm turning fifty—and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to reinvent myself. No dramatic declarations. No “this is my next chapter” energy. No burning things down just to rebuild them.

(No sudden urge to move to Bali, start a breathwork company, or exclusively wear linen—although, to be fair, I’m not ruling any of that out.)

Just a quiet, almost amused awareness: Oh… this is who I’ve been becoming all along. Not a reinvention. A recognition.

And somehow, that feels like the biggest shift of all.

If you had asked me, at almost any point in my life, who I was…I would’ve given you a very good answer: A polished one. A coherent one. A convincing one. Because long before I learned how to build products…I learned how to build a self that made sense to the world around me.

I grew up in Malaysia, in a Muslim culture, as a Chinese, in a family that loved me deeply—and had a very clear vision of what a good life looked like. My parents loved me in the ways they knew how. Through sacrifice. Through provision. Through making sure I had every opportunity they didn’t.

My dad, in particular, was a strong presence in shaping who I became. He embodied discipline. Structure. A clear sense of what it meant to do things “the right way.” And I absorbed that. The part of me that knows how to show up. To deliver. To follow through. That part was shaped by him.

My mom held a different kind of strength. Steady. Enduring. Holding the emotional and practical fabric of our lives together in ways that were less visible, but just as foundational.

And my brother and I grew up inside that same structure—each of us navigating it in our own way.

And still…for all the love that existed—there wasn’t much space for the internal world. What I was feeling. What I was questioning. Who I was becoming beneath the surface. So I learned to hold that part of myself… alone.

And somewhere in that quiet…a question began to form: Can I be all of me… and still be loved?

I didn’t ask it out loud. But I lived inside it. So I became very good at being who made sense. The daughter who followed the plan, mostly. The student who did well. The person who made choices that were… "correct". If there had been a gold star system for “doing life right,” I would’ve been collecting them.

And underneath that…a quieter negotiation: Is this really me? Or just the version of me that works?

That pattern followed me into my career. I became exceptional at navigating complexity. Building. Leading. Delivering. Product management was a natural fit—a world where clarity, structure, and logic were not just valued… but rewarded. And I thrived. I built products used by millions. Led teams. Made decisions that shaped real outcomes. From the outside, it looked like success. And in many ways… it was.

But even there… a quieter question lingered: Am I building what matters to me… or just what I know how to build well?

And while part of me was following structure… another part of me was already reaching for something else.

I remember being seventeen. Street racing. Illegally.

It wasn’t about the cars. It wasn’t even about the thrill, exactly. It was the first time I felt something break open inside me. A moment where the rules fell away… and I wasn’t thinking about who I was supposed to be. I was just… alive. Looking back now, I can see it clearly. That wasn’t rebellion for the sake of rebellion. It was a glimpse. A glimpse of what it felt like to be fully in my body… fully present… fully free. And that thread stayed with me.

It showed up later— through movement, through risk, through experience. Billiards tournaments. Snowboarding down mountains. Skydiving out of planes. Flying stunt planes. Rock climbing. Hiking. Camping. Backpacking.

Different environments. Different phases of life. But the same feeling. Moments where thinking stopped… and I met myself without the noise. My body knew what freedom felt like… before my life knew how to hold it.. And the first time my life began to catch up to that feeling—was when I left home.

At twenty, I moved to the United States, for higher education. And for the first time… there was space. Not full freedom. But enough…to begin choosing. Not loudly. Not rebelliously. More like…“Let me just try this one thing and see if anyone notices.” And still… even in that space… I didn’t yet know how to choose myself. I knew how to feel freedom. I just didn’t yet know how to build a life around it. So I did what I had been taught to do..

The Life That Made Sense

I dated. I chose partners who fit into a version of life that felt aligned with what I had been taught—stable, logical, respectable. And eventually, I entered a marriage that reflected exactly that. It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t broken. It just wasn’t mine. An honest attempt to build a life that worked.

And within that, I tried to make space for myself. Small expressions of authenticity. Moments where I could feel… a little more me.

But no matter how much I adjusted within... something in me knew. The foundation itself wasn’t mine. So when that marriage ended…It wasn’t explosive. It was clarifying. Not a dramatic collapse. More like finally admitting: Oh… I’ve been trying to make this make sense for a while now.

And in all honesty… there was another truth running quietly underneath all of it. I had a strong relationship with my sexuality. Not one rooted in shame—but not fully integrated either.

I followed the structure I had been taught: Sex belonged inside relationships. So I had relationships. But often…the relationship itself wasn’t the point. Sex was. Connection was. Exploration was. And when the relationship no longer made sense…I left.

At the time, I didn’t question it too deeply. It worked. Until it didn’t.

The In-Between

What followed was a period of exploration. Some connections were fleeting. Some were meaningful in the moment. And if I’m honest… even while I was in some of them, I already knew: This probably isn’t it.

But I was learning. Learning how to choose. Learning how to feel. Learning how to listen to something deeper than logic.

The Mirror of Misalignment

There was a relationship that felt aligned. Easy. Natural. And then we chose to open it. Not from grounded awareness. Not from deep understanding. But from curiosity… and honestly, a bit of optimism that things would just… work themselves out.

(Spoiler: they don’t.)

For the first time… I felt something I hadn’t quite allowed myself before. Freedom. The ability to explore… without needing to contain myself inside a single structure. And it felt true.

But it didn’t feel true for him. Non-monogamy didn’t land the same way. It brought up discomfort. Insecurity. So we closed the relationship again.

And I agreed. Partly because I cared about him. Partly because I saw his pain. And partly… because I didn’t yet know how to stand fully in my truth without feeling like I was causing harm.

But the truth didn’t go away. So I made my truth negotiable. I told myself: "If I’m emotionally loyal… if I still show up for him… if it’s “just sex”… Then it doesn’t really hurt anyone.

But underneath that justification… I knew. I wasn’t being honest. Not with him. Not with myself. And that was harder to face than anything else. Because it wasn’t about being non-monogamous. It was about integrity.

And at that time… I didn’t yet know how to hold both my truth and someone else’s reality… without breaking something. So I broke my own... and told myself it was fine. And that realization stayed.

Grief, Unmetabolized

And around that same time… my dad passed. The same man who had shaped so much of how I moved through the world—was suddenly gone. There’s a kind of grief that arrives loudly. And then there’s the kind that… just sits quietly beside you.

I felt it. The sadness. The guilt. The weight of what was lost… and what was never fully said. In losing my dad, I realized how much had been left unspoken… and unacknowledged.

And yet… I didn’t fully process it. Life kept moving. I kept moving. So the grief stayed. Unintegrated. Unreleased. And quietly… it shaped everything that followed.

The First Cracks

Then came a connection that shifted something. Not a rupture. But a recognition. He reflected something back to me that didn’t quite fit into the life I had constructed. Something I couldn’t easily explain… but couldn’t ignore.

And with him… I began exploring something more fully than I had before. Not just attraction. Not just connection. But openness. The possibility of loving—and desiring—beyond a single structure.

In that relationship, I was more honest about my sexuality than I had ever been. Not perfectly. But more. Because he was exploring too. Because he accepted my kinkiness—and I accepted and celebrated his.

There was permission there. A kind of mutual curiosity. A sense that maybe…there wasn’t just one way to relate.

And yet… opening that door didn’t just reveal freedom. It revealed everything underneath. Our edges. Our insecurities. Our unspoken expectations. The places where we didn’t yet know how to communicate clearly. How to co-create. How to navigate an unfamiliar internal landscape that neither of us had tools for. It showed his cracks. And mine. And beneath all of that… was something I hadn’t yet fully faced.

Grief.

My dad had passed not long before. And while I had felt it… I hadn’t fully allowed myself to process it. I hadn’t slowed down enough to sit with it. To understand it. To integrate it. So it stayed.

Quiet. Unspoken. But present.

And it didn’t just sit beside the relationship—it moved through it. Amplifying everything. The connection felt deeper. The uncertainty felt heavier. The emotional edges felt sharper. Because I wasn’t just navigating a relationship. I was navigating loss. Identity. Truth. All at once. And we didn’t yet know how to hold that. Not individually. Not together.

And still… even in that expansion… I was learning. Still navigating how to hold both my truth and someone else’s experience of it. Still not fully honest. Not because I didn’t want to be. But because I didn’t yet know how. How to stand in my truth… without softening it to keep connection. How to express desire… without negotiating it into something more acceptable.

And so even in a space that felt more open…there were still edges I didn’t fully step into. Still parts of myself I didn’t yet know how to hold cleanly. And everything felt… heightened.

Looking back, it makes sense. I wasn’t just navigating a relationship. I was learning how to be with truth—in my body, in my desire, in my grief.

(No wonder it felt intense.)

But something in me knew: I couldn’t keep going the way I had been. It wasn’t just the relationship that was opening. It was everything I hadn't yet allowed myself to feel.

The Rupture

And then came the relationship that changed everything. Not because it worked—but because of everything it opened.

With him, I stepped fully into exploration. Not just in relationship structure… but in power, polarity, and embodiment. We explored dynamics I had only begun to touch before.

Different expressions of dominance and submission. Different roles, energies, and ways of relating. We explored non-monogamy more deeply—not just as an idea… but as a lived experience. Multiple configurations. Multiple connections. Multiple ways of holding intimacy and desire.

And at the same time… something else was happening. I was finally allowing myself to feel the grief I had long kept at a distance. My dad’s passing—which had lived quietly underneath everything—began to surface.

Not all at once. But enough that I could no longer avoid it. So what we were navigating… wasn’t just exploration. It was everything.

Desire. Power. Attachment. Identity. Grief.

All unfolding at the same time. And it was expansive. And it was beautiful. And it was also… too much for the container we had. Because what was being revealed… was deeper than either of us knew how to hold.

Our patterns. Our wounds. Our unmet needs. Our limits.

The cracks that had been there—but had never been fully seen. And as everything expanded… those cracks didn’t just show. They widened. Until eventually…they broke. Not in one moment. But in a series of moments where it became clear: We didn’t yet have the capacity—individually or together—to hold what we had opened.

And that was devastating. Because it wasn’t just the relationship that unraveled. It was my understanding of myself. It was the illusion that I understood myself. What I believed about love. What I believed about connection. What I believed about who I was.

All of it came into question. It was painful. Disorienting. Necessary. And it didn’t just open something. It cracked me open— in a way I couldn’t close again. And for the first time… I stopped trying to put myself back together the same way.

Coming Back Into My Body

And somewhere in that opening… I stopped trying to understand myself only through my mind. And started listening to my body.

For most of my life, my body had been something I managed. Contained. Controlled. Appropriate. But there was always something underneath that.

Something I had felt glimpses of—at seventeen, on the street. And now…I began to explore it consciously. Through desire. Through sensation. Through power. Through surrender.

BDSM wasn’t just exploration.

It was revelation.

It was truth.

A space where I could feel… without needing to justify. Where power wasn’t something I performed—but something I experienced. Where surrender wasn’t weakness—but trust. And where truth didn’t live in my thoughts… but in my body. It challenged everything I had been taught. About shame. About control. About what was acceptable.

And slowly…I began to unlearn. To trust what I felt. To honor what was true. To stop negotiating my own experience. The same aliveness I first felt at seventeen—I found again.

But this time…

I didn’t run from it.

I chose it.

The Years of Mirrors

What followed the rupture wasn’t a clean rebuild. It was… a becoming. And I wasn’t alone.

Jeannie.

Miguel.

Maurice.

Carrie.

Orpheus.

Kelli.

Bradley.

Shuyan.

Yuning.

Mathias.

Christian.

Tracy.

PJ.

Ian.

Austin.

Amir.

Taryn.

Edgar.

Mark.

Each of them met me at a different edge of myself. No one person saw all of me—but together… they helped me see myself.

(There’s a part of this story I hold separately—where I name each of them, and what they reflected back to me simply by being who they are. Because they deserve more than a passing mention. If you feel called, you can find it here: 📝The Mirrors Along the Way)

And somewhere in that field of being seen…something softened. The need to prove. The need to convince. The need to perform worth. Not gone. But… quieter.

A Different Kind of Love

And from that place… Brian entered. Not as a solution. Not as a rescue. But as something I hadn’t fully experienced before.

A partnership that doesn’t ask me to shrink… or adjust… or translate myself into something more acceptable. With him, I don’t feel like I have to perform understanding. I feel met in it.

There is a different kind of presence. One where I can name what is true for me—even when it is uncomfortable… and not feel like I am risking the connection. One where he holds his own truth… while making space for mine.

Not perfectly. But consciously. And that changes everything.

Because for the first time… I’m not just exploring freedom. I’m experiencing what it feels like to be in conscious partnership—rooted in 📝Relational Sovereignty—without abandoning myself.

There is groundedness... expansiveness... depth. Not distance. Not detachment.

But two people choosing each other—without needing to control each other. And that… feels entirely new. It doesn’t erase my past. But it reframes it.

All the moments where I had softened my truth… negotiated my needs… or held back parts of myself to maintain connection—I can finally see them clearly. Not with judgment. But with understanding.

And in that clarity… something settles in me. Not because everything is resolved. But because I no longer need to betray myself to be loved.

Just… be.

And be met.

(Which, it turns out, is both simpler—and far more vulnerable—than it sounds.)

Fifty

And now… fifty years into being human… I no longer feel the need to convince myself of who I am. What I feel instead… is devotion. To growth. To love. To becoming.

Not in one area. But in all of it—Not selectively, not when it’s convenient. In how I build. In how I feel. In how I relate. In how I live.

For You

If something in this story feels familiar… if you saw yourself anywhere in it… if something in you softened, or stirred… This is your invitation.

Not to become someone new. But to stop abandoning who you already are. To tell yourself the truth—not just the version that’s easy to admit, or the one that keeps your identity intact… but the parts you’ve learned to rationalize, justify, or quietly look away from.

Not just your light. But your shadow.

Because the truth that changes you is rarely the one you already agree with. The patterns you defend. The stories that keep you right. The places your ego keeps you safe… but not entirely honest. And to be willing—gently, but truthfully—to see all of it.

And to surround yourself with people who don’t just see you… but are willing to see all of you. The parts that are easy to love. And the parts that are harder to hold. People who are doing their own work—who meet you not just in validation… but in truth.

And to let yourself be seen in that way. Not curated. Not managed. Not performed. But real. And to choose yourself. Not just when it’s clear. Not just when it’s comfortable. But when it asks something of you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this:

Every connection, every experience, every adventure… is an invitation. Not just to understand them—but to see yourself more fully.

What’s real for you.

What isn’t.

What you feel.

What you’ve been avoiding.

Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it pisses you off.

Because the truth does that. And it also sets you free. Not all at once. But in the moment you stop arguing with what you deep down already know... That moment…is quietly and intoxicatingly liberating.

So I’ll leave you with this—What have you got to lose? What are you truly afraid of by being unequivocally honest with yourself? These are the same questions I’ve had to ask—and continue to ask—myself.

Maybe that’s the work. To meet yourself there and beyond. With that level of honesty. Not as judgment.

But as love. The kind that doesn’t look away.

No partner, no connection, no amount of love from the outside—can give that to you… if you don’t give it to yourself.

Closing

This life—the heartbreak, the missteps, the becoming—It wasn’t perfect.

(It still isn’t.)

But it is real. And it is mine.

So here’s to fifty.

To the girl who asked: Can I be all of me and still be loved?

And to the woman who now knows: YES.