‘To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.’
– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882), an influential American essayist, philosopher, poet and lecturer.
Thank God for JOMO — the Joy of Missing Out.
For years, I experienced it without knowing what to call it. But the moment I discovered the phrase, something within me eased. It was as though a weight I had carried for decades had quietly lifted from my chest.
You see, I have always enjoyed being alone. Not all the time, but often enough.
Not because I disliked people or was angry with the world. I simply enjoyed my own company. Solitude felt as natural to me as swimming is to fish. When I was alone, I never felt lonely or that something was missing.
Yet, for years, I wondered whether there was something wrong with me.
Most people seemed to enjoy company. They sought groups, gatherings, conversations, celebrations and shared experiences. I, on the other hand, often preferred silence, rivers, trees and my own thoughts.
While others found comfort in belonging, I found it in wandering alone. Now, in my seventh decade, I realise that I was simply being myself.
I grew up in the early 1950s and through the 1960s in a remote village in the Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching. Life was very different then — no mobile phones, no internet and no endless stream of entertainment.
The rivers were full of fish, forests were rich in edible plants, and hills seemed to stretch endlessly.
As a primary schoolboy, I loved fishing. Correction: It was my obsession.
After five long days at school, weekends meant freedom. On Saturdays, I thought of rivers and streams. Fishing became my therapy long before I knew such a word existed.
Sometimes my cousin, Ratum, joined me. Occasionally, my younger brother came along too.
The jungle never felt empty. There was always the sound of flowing water, insects singing in the undergrowth, birds calling from distant trees and leaves rustling in the wind.
Given a choice between other activities and standing beside a quiet stream waiting for fish, I would almost always choose the stream.
I loved the patience it required, the mystery of what might be beneath the water and the sight of the current moving around rocks and fallen branches. Most of all, I loved that sudden tug on the line.
Every catch felt like a small miracle.
Perhaps what made fishing even more meaningful was that I genuinely loved eating fish.
Without realising it, I had become a small contributor to my family’s food supply. My catches were never large enough to transform our lives, but they made a difference in their own modest way.
As a child, I felt a special satisfaction watching my parents prepare the fish I had caught. I still remember sitting with my family during evening meals, watching my younger brothers and sisters enjoy the food.
Fishing, however, was rarely the end of the day’s adventure.
On my way home through the jungle, I often collected edible plants — mushrooms, bamboo shoots, ferns, and others. I called them forest gifts.
Looking back, I realise how fortunate we were.
We had little money, but we possessed knowledge that connected us directly to the land. The forest was not merely scenery. It was a provider, a teacher and a playground.
While other children spent their weekends together, I often followed narrow jungle paths alone. I didn’t think anything unusual about it.
Yet not everyone saw things that way.
My preference for solitude did not make me particularly popular with some of the other children. Over time, they came to know me as the boy who preferred disappearing into the jungle rather than joining group activities.
At first glance, that might sound sad. Perhaps it should have hurt. Perhaps I should have felt rejected. But strangely, I hardly noticed.
Because I had my own interests, being left out never felt like a punishment. It was simply life carrying on as usual.
I did not sit at home wondering why I had not been invited. I felt no resentment and did not spend sleepless nights wishing I belonged.
It never occurred to me that I was supposed to feel left out.
I had my own little world, and it was enough.
Still, as the years passed, I occasionally wondered whether I was an oddball.
Why did I enjoy being alone so much? Why did crowds sometimes exhaust me when they seemed to energise others? Why could a quiet river make me happier than a busy gathering?
These questions never completely disappeared.
Even after I grew older and entered journalism, part of me remained that village boy walking alone through the forest.
Journalism is, in many ways, a profession centred on people. You meet strangers, attend events, conduct interviews, build networks and listen to stories.
Over the years, I met people from all walks of life. Some became friends, some became colleagues, while others left lasting impressions.
I valued those relationships. Yet, even during the busiest periods of my career, I continued to treasure solitude.
After days spent talking, listening, writing and meeting people, I often felt the need to retreat into silence.
Not because I disliked anyone. I simply needed space to hear my own thoughts again.
The older I became, the more comfortable I grew with this part of myself. What had once seemed strange gradually became easier to understand.
People are simply built differently.
Some draw strength from gatherings, while others find it in quietness. Some recharge through conversation; others through reflection.
Neither is better. They are just different ways of being.
For much of my life, however, society seemed to celebrate one particular type of personality: the outgoing person, the social butterfly, the individual always surrounded by others.
Those who enjoyed solitude were sometimes viewed with suspicion. They were labelled shy, antisocial, withdrawn or lonely.
But solitude and loneliness are not the same.
Loneliness is the pain of feeling disconnected. Solitude is the peace of being comfortable with oneself.
I wish I had understood that distinction earlier. It might have saved me years of wondering whether there was something unusual about me.
When I discovered the phrase “Joy of Missing Out”, it felt as though someone had finally put a name to an experience I had lived with for decades.
The joy was never about rejecting people. It was about embracing what genuinely brought me peace.
It was the freedom to know that I did not have to attend every gathering, join every group or follow every trend.
Happiness does not always arrive through noise.
Sometimes, it comes through silence. Sometimes, it comes from watching a fishing line disappear beneath the water. And sometimes, it is simply the pleasure of following a narrow jungle path home as the sun begins to set.
Now, in my seventh decade, many of the people from my childhood are no longer around. Some have passed away, while others have moved elsewhere. The rivers may have changed, and the forests may no longer be as they once were.
Time leaves its mark on everything.
Yet I can still recall that little boy walking through the jungle. I can still hear water flowing over rocks and feel the excitement of carrying fish home for dinner.
The older I get, the more I understand that life is not a competition to see who can collect the most friends, attend the most events or attract the most attention.
Life is something quieter and more personal.
In the end, each of us must discover the kind of life that feels right for our own soul. Some souls bloom in crowds. Others bloom in solitude. The mistake is believing that there is only one correct way to live.
A river does not envy a mountain. A bird does not envy a fish. Each follows its own nature. Human beings are no different.
Looking back, I no longer ask whether I was weird. The question itself seems unnecessary now.
I was simply a boy who loved fishing. A child who found comfort in forests. A man who carried solitude like an old friend.
Perhaps wisdom comes when we finally stop measuring ourselves against others and begin understanding ourselves instead.
The world constantly encourages us to become more — more connected, more visible and more involved. Yet there is a quiet wisdom in knowing when enough is enough.
The older I am, the more I believe peace isn’t always found by adding things to life. Often, it comes from removing them.
Removing noise, expectations, and the endless need for approval. What remains is something simple and precious: the freedom to be ourselves. Perhaps that is one of life’s greatest lessons.
We arrive in this world alone, and we leave it alone. Between those two moments, we spend much of our time trying to become someone. Yet happiness may not lie in becoming somebody else, but in accepting who we have always been.
Like a river flowing towards the sea, each life follows its own course. Some journeys are loud and crowded; others are quiet and solitary. Neither path is superior. What matters is that we travel honestly and remain true to ourselves.
Looking back, I am grateful for my rivers, forests, fish and my solitude. They taught me that being alone is not the same as being lonely.
Sometimes, the greatest joy in life comes not from what we join, but from what we quietly allow to pass us by.
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
