“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.’
– Carl Jung (1875-1961), a Swiss psychiatrist and one of the most influential thinkers in psychology. He founded analytical psychology, a school of thought that explores the unconscious mind, dreams, symbols, personality and the lifelong process of personal growth.
FOR the better part of my younger years, I was not exactly the president of my own fan club. In fact, if there had been an election, I would have voted for someone else entirely – possibly my cat, who at least knew how to nap without spiralling into existential dread.
Self-loathing, you see, is practically a human pastime, isn’t it? Some people collect stamps; others collect reasons to dislike themselves. I, naturally, was in the latter camp. A gold-medal-level participant, if I may say so.
Oh, but let’s not forget my cynicism – a delightful little character trait that’s been my constant companion through life. Cynicism is essentially my armour, my weapon, and my comfort blanket all rolled into one.
My cynicism comes with a few handy perks: a razor-sharp sense of humour, zero tolerance for rubbish, and a sixth sense for detecting nonsense – which, let’s be honest, is quite useful because if nonsense were a sport, the world would be hosting the Olympics for it every year.
But here’s the kicker: somewhere along the way, while dodging my own self-hatred and side-eyeing the world’s absurdities, I stumbled upon a small, inconvenient truth.
Brace yourself – it’s about to get philosophical. Ready?
Here it is. I realised I was stuck with myself. Completely, irrevocably, permanently stuck.
No refund policy, no chance of switching to someone taller, smarter, or better at parallel parking. Just me, myself, and I – forever.
What a tragic comedy.
So, what would you do when confronting a grim reality?
Well, you’ve got two choices. You can either continue loathing yourself until the bitter end, or you can begrudgingly accept that you’re not going anywhere.
I chose acceptance, mostly because I can’t be bothered to spend my entire life in a battle with the person I see in the mirror every day. Who has the energy for that?
Fast-forward several decades, and here I am, well into my seventh decade of existence. (Yes, I’m old. You’re welcome.) I’m pleased to report that I’ve made peace with myself – or, at the very least, signed a ceasefire agreement.
We’re not best friends, me and myself, but we’ve learned to coexist without any major dramas.
I’ve even reached a point where I can forgive myself for all the ways I’ve messed up over the years. And believe me, there were plenty. From career flops to cringe-worthy social faux pas, I’ve got enough regrets to fill a library.
But what’s the point of carrying all that baggage around? It’s exhausting. And frankly, my back isn’t what it used to be.
Speaking of forgiveness, here’s a fun fact: I’ve also managed to forgive other people — yes, even the ones who absolutely didn’t deserve it. You know the type: the liars, the backstabbers, the ones who borrow your favourite things and never return them.
Oh, and let’s not forget the ones who ruin group projects and somehow still get credit for the work they didn’t do. Absolute gems, all of them.
But here’s the thing: holding grudges is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to drop dead. It just doesn’t work.
So, I decided to let it all go – not for their sake, obviously, but for mine. I’m not about to let their nonsense clutter up my soul. I’ve got enough clutter as it is, thank you very much.
Now, don’t get me wrong – life outside of my little bubble is still a mess most of the time. The world is basically a circus, and everyone’s clowning around without a clue what they’re doing.
Politicians? Mostly clowns. Social media influencers? Clowns with filters. The bloke who thought pineapple on pizza was a good idea? A culinary clown.
I used to think it was my job to have opinions about everything and everyone, to point out all the flaws and injustices in the world.
But honestly? It’s exhausting, and I’d rather spend my time doing something more productive – like watching reruns of James Bond movies or attempting to keep my decorative plants alive.
One of the most surprising things I’ve learned in my senior years is that life doesn’t come with a map. Wish I’d learned it much earlier. There’s no GPS to guide you to “success” or “happiness”, or whatever it is we’re all supposed to be chasing.
And even if there were a map, I’m fairly certain I’d get lost anyway. (My sense of direction is appalling.) But that’s okay. I’ve come to realise that the journey is the destination – or some other equally cliché nonsense that people bandy around.
The point is, I’ve stopped beating myself up for not reaching the top of some imaginary mountain. Who needs a mountain when you’ve got a perfectly good sofa and a cup of teh tarik or kopi peng kau?
And let’s talk about this whole “self-love” trend for a moment, shall we? It’s everywhere these days.
You can’t scroll through the internet without stumbling across a motivational quote telling you to love yourself unconditionally, as if it’s that simple.
I mean, sure, I’ve made peace with myself, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m head-over-heels in love with myself. That seems a bit much, doesn’t it?
I prefer to think of my relationship with myself as a kind of arranged marriage: we didn’t choose each other, but we’re making it work. And honestly, that’s good enough for me.
So here I am, a rather suspicious and grumpy old cynic with a surprisingly optimistic outlook on life. (I know, I’m just as shocked as you are.)
I’ve learned to laugh at the absurdity of it all; to forgive myself and others, and to embrace the fact that I’ll never have it all figured out.
And you know what? That’s okay.
Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth living. Sometimes, it’s enough to make it through the day with your sense of humour intact.
In conclusion – because every good story needs one – here is my advice to anyone who has made it this far through this slightly wandering monologue:
Don’t be too hard on yourself.
Why?
Well, there is a curious habit many people carry around, often without realising it. They treat themselves like a badly behaved schoolchild. One small mistake, and suddenly the mind transforms into a courtroom. Evidence is presented, witnesses are called, and the verdict arrives swiftly – guilty of not being perfect enough.
The difficulty, of course, is that life does not come with rehearsals. There are no practice rounds, no neat scripts tucked into your pocket.
People forget things, arrive late, say the wrong words, or walk into a room and promptly forget why they went there in the first place. It is all rather common.
Even those who appear to have their lives perfectly arranged – neatly ironed and colour-coded – are quietly misplacing their metaphorical keys from time to time.
The real trouble begins when every small slip is treated as proof of some grand personal failure. Miss a deadline? Clearly, everything is falling apart. Burn the fried rice? Best to abandon cooking altogether and commit to a lifetime of cereal. It is an impressively dramatic way to live, but also an exhausting one.
A gentler approach tends to serve better. Instead of treating mistakes as disasters, you might consider viewing them as what they usually are: ordinary human moments.
You are not a machine designed for flawless output. You are a person, and people are, by nature, a bit inconsistent.
Some days you are focused and efficient; on others, you are searching for your glasses while wearing them.
It also helps to remember that most people are not watching you nearly as closely as you imagine. They are far too occupied with their own small mishaps — their own burnt toast and forgotten errands — to keep a running commentary on yours.
So, when things go slightly sideways, resist the urge to pile on extra punishment. Learn what you can, mend what needs mending, and carry on without turning it into a full theatrical production in your head.
In short, do your best, but do not demand perfection from yourself. Life is already quite demanding without you acting as its strictest referee, whistle in hand, ready to penalise every minor misstep.
Perhaps it is not your job to fix everything. Life is messy, peculiar, and occasionally absurd – yet it is also strangely beautiful in that very disorder. The cracks and quirks are not flaws to be erased but features of something still unfolding.
So, take a breath, laugh when you can (especially at yourself), and remember that though you are stuck with yourself, it is not such an unfortunate arrangement after all.
After all, if life must be a little absurd, it may as well be interesting – and if you must be imperfect, you may as well be human.
Perhaps that is the quiet wisdom that takes some of us decades to discover.
We spend so much of our lives trying to become someone worthy of kindness that we forget kindness was never meant to be earned in the first place. We readily forgive friends for their mistakes, reassure family members when they stumble, and encourage strangers who are having a difficult day. Yet when it comes to us, we become astonishingly unforgiving.
Maybe the greatest act of maturity isn’t achieving perfection at all. Maybe it’s learning to extend to yourself the same patience you so willingly offer everyone else.
After all, you’ve accompanied yourself through every disappointment, every success, every awkward conversation, every impossible decision, every ordinary Tuesday and every extraordinary moment.
So, be patient with yourself. Laugh more than you scold. Learn more than you regret. Accept that you will occasionally make spectacular blunders and survive them with your dignity only slightly dented.
And if all else fails, make yourself a cup of tea – or perhaps a kopi peng kau – and remember that tomorrow is another opportunity to get things slightly less wrong.
That, in my view, is more than enough.
DISCLAIMER: The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
