‘I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’
– Maya Angelou (1928–2014), an acclaimed American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist.
Simu grew up in a household where love was not spoken aloud but woven into the fabric of everyday life. In his parents’ world, affection was conveyed through tangible gestures — a new shirt, a vibrant flowery sarong, or the promise of a bigger toy. These were their love languages, and they believed that by providing more, they fulfilled their roles as parents.
Hugs and heartfelt words were foreign concepts to them. The warmth of an embrace or the comfort of kind words felt unnecessary in a home where material offerings were prioritised. To Simu, love was synonymous with possessions, a peculiar truth that shaped his understanding of relationships. He learned early on that gifts were tokens of care, each carrying an unspoken promise of protection and support, even if they lacked the emotional depth of a simple “I love you”.
As he navigated his childhood, Simu often longed for the warmth of connection that seemed just out of reach — moments of laughter shared over a family meal or the solace of a parent’s reassuring voice.
As a kid, Simu picked up on this without even realising it. His parents never sat him down and explained it, but their actions made it clear. Success mattered most in life, and success meant having stuff to show for it.
Feelings? Those were a distraction — something you dealt with only if they didn’t get in the way of achieving more.
Simu had gotten so used to this way of thinking that it shaped how he saw everything. He stopped noticing emotions altogether, in himself and others.
Instead, he started viewing the world as a checklist of what was useful or valuable. People, places, even memories — all of it got ranked in his mind based on their “worth”. If it didn’t have a clear, tangible benefit, it barely registered to him.
On the outside, it might have looked like Simu had his life together. He was practical, focused, and driven. But deep down, something felt off, like there was a part of him he’d locked away without even realising it.
And the longer he ignored it, the harder it became to figure out what was missing.
As the years crept by and the weight of time bore down, Simu’s parents began to falter under the strain of age and illness.
Their laughter grew softer, their steps slower, and their once-boundless energy seemed to dissipate into the quiet corners of their home.
It was during one of these hushed evenings that they summoned the courage to speak.
“Simu,” his mother began, her voice quivering with an unspoken ache, “why do you feel so far away from us? Don’t you love us anymore?”
His father, usually stoic, nodded, his weathered hands clasped tightly together as if bracing for a storm. Their faces, lined with the traces of a life lived in devotion to their only child, were now etched with something heavier — fear, longing, and a deep, unspoken sorrow.
Simu hesitated. The weight of their question pressed against the carefully constructed shell he had built around himself. He looked at them, his eyes steady but devoid of warmth, and after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
“I don’t know how to love,” he said finally, his voice even, almost clinical, as though reciting a fact rather than confessing a truth. “You taught me to chase success, not feelings.”
The words hung in the air like sharp and unforgiving shards of glass. His parents flinched, not visibly, but Simu could sense it—an imperceptible crumbling of something fragile and sacred between them.
The revelation was brutal in its simplicity, cutting through the veneer of their shared history and exposing the unbridgeable distance that had grown between them.
Simu did not hate his parents. On the contrary, he ensured they were cared for with the same precision and efficiency he applied to every aspect of his life.
Their pantry was always stocked, their medications meticulously organised, and their home equipped with every comfort they could need.
Yet, in his mind, they existed not as people with emotions and dreams but as responsibilities to be managed, and obligations to be fulfilled.
To Simu, they were like the appliances that populated his meticulously ordered home — valuable, and functional, but ultimately replaceable when they no longer served their purpose.
His care was measured, transactional, without tenderness they so desperately craved.
Pain, to him, was not a shared experience but an abstract concept, something to be mitigated, solved, or avoided — not something to be felt.
He had mastered the art of success, of control, of efficiency, but in doing so, he had lost the ability to connect, to empathise, to love.
And, as he sat there, watching the silent tears glisten in his mother’s eyes and the faint tremor in his father’s hands, he realised that the chasm between them was not born of malice but of a lifelong misalignment of values. They had given him everything they thought he needed, and in return, he had become everything they had feared.
And yet, even at that moment, the walls within Simu remained unshaken. The revelation had cut deep, yes, but the wound was theirs to bear.
For Simu, it was simply another truth to be catalogued, another problem to be understood — but never truly felt.
In his mid-twenties, Simu embarked on what society deemed the next logical step: he got married. It seemed like a rite of passage, a checkbox on the checklist of adulthood.
Everyone around him was making the same leap, so he followed suit.
However, beneath the celebratory façade of their union, Simu approached his marriage with a decidedly transactional mindset.
His relationship with his wife, Usah, was structured around pragmatic agreements rather than emotional bonds.
Simu fulfilled his role as a provider, catering to Usah’s material needs — stability, security, and comfort.
In return, she assiduously adhered to her role’s expectations, finding solace in the predictable rhythm of their lives.
Usah, possessing a quiet strength, accepted this arrangement with grace and resilience. After all, Simu was indeed a capable provider.
Yet, lurking just beneath Usah’s composed demeanour was an emotional tempest. During her meetings with my mother — her childhood confidante — she would unburden her heart, exposing her loneliness and yearning for a connection that transcended the transactional nature of her marriage. Each encounter was a revealing glimpse into her struggle, where longing simmered beneath a practised smile.
In a poignant echo of Simu’s emotional distance, their young son, Ajun, exhibited the same semblance of detachment. Though our acquaintance was relatively superficial, our lives intersected often enough for me to discern the unsettling dynamics at play. Ajun seemed to cling excessively to his mother, a gesture both touching and disconcerting.
It was as if he was a miniature reflection of his father — a boy who exuded restraint, practicality, and an alarming absence of warmth generally expected from childhood.
Interacting with him often felt like brushing against a veil of numbness that had come to define Simu’s existence. The boy’s stoic demeanour was an expression of the emotional void that loomed large over their family.
As the years passed, Simu’s life became increasingly ensnared by the trappings of materialism. His existence, once brimming with potential and possibility, transformed into a series of possessions that outlined his identity, leaving scant room for the authentic, messy experience of human connection.
Encircled by a veneer of care and concern from those around him, he remained resolutely isolated, a prisoner of his own choices and values.
The vibrant hues of life faded as he navigated the world through a lens that dulled the very essence of what it meant to live and connect meaningfully.
The story of Simu offers several takeaways:
One pertains to love languages and communication. Understanding diverse love languages is vital. For Simu, material gestures overshadowed verbal expressions, affecting emotional bonds.
The second one has to do with emotional intelligence. Neglecting emotions hampers empathy. Simu’s focus on success hindered genuine relationships.
Thirdly, genuine interpersonal relationships surpass material provisions. Simu’s transactional approach limited deep bonds.
Fourthly, generational differences, i.e. varied values, can strain familial ties. Simu’s upbringing influenced his disconnect with his parents.
The fifth takeaway is the impact on children. Emotional distance harms children, as seen through Ajun. Emotional warmth is crucial for their development.
Sixth on the list are self-awareness and growth. Simu’s journey underscores self-awareness and growth through confronting emotional shortcomings.
Lastly is materialism vs. emotional fulfilment. Material possessions pale in comparison to emotional richness. True happiness lies in authentic connections.
These takeaways remind us of the importance of emotional connection, empathy, and self-reflection in fostering meaningful relationships and living a fulfilling life.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
