Mahathir's Journey To Be A Better Man

  Today is the first day of Ramadhan. I woke up later than I should have. Sahur had already slipped past us. Aina was apologetic. Soft-voiced. Guilty in a way that didn’t need to be. But I wasn’t angry. Not even slightly. Because sometimes what matters is not the perfection of the act, but the presence within it. And this year, we are present. Together. Yes, we missed the meal. But we did not miss Ramadhan. We still stood in intention. We still entered the day conscious of fasting. And maybe that’s the reminder I needed, that Ramadhan was never about flawless execution. It is about returning. In the Qur'an , Allah says: “O you who believe, fasting has been prescribed upon you as it was prescribed upon those before you that you may attain taqwa.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:183) Not perfection. Not performance. But taqwa, awareness. Consciousness. God-mindedness. And awareness sometimes begins in the smallest moments. like choosing patience instead of irritation. I still remem...

A good friend of mine once said "I feel like I'm more of an observer and you Mahathir, are a great storyteller"   I’ve been thinking about why I’m drawn to stories, not just reading them, but living inside them, retelling them. Why certain memories replay in narrative form, like chapters I revisit when I need to understand myself again. Maybe it’s because stories don’t just describe life. They shape it. When I look back at my life, I don’t see random events. I see arcs. I see chapters. I see a younger version of myself who believed love alone could fix everything. I see seasons of confusion. I see growth that didn’t feel like growth at the time. I see music marking transitions, like chapters closing and opening. That’s the thing about memory, it doesn’t store data. It stores stories. We don’t say, “On that day, X happened.” We say, “That was the moment everything changed.” We frame our lives in plot. Life, in real time, is messy. It’s loud like a firework, emotion...

  Letters I Never Sent There are words that never made it past my throat. Not because they weren’t true, but because they felt too heavy to release. This is one of those letters. Not meant to be delivered. Not meant to be answered. Just meant to exist. To My Younger Self You thought love would be simple if you were sincere enough. You believed that if you gave fully, honestly, without games, things would naturally align. You didn’t yet understand timing. Or ego. Or how two good people can still wound each other without meaning to. But I don’t blame you. You loved bravely. And that bravery shaped the man I am now. You were softer. More impulsive. Less guarded. You didn’t calculate outcomes, you just felt. And while that cost you, it also made your joy purer than anything I experience now. If I could sit beside you, I wouldn’t warn you away from the pain. I would just tell you this: Not every ending is a failure. Some endings are teachers in disguise. To Aina There ar...

 Music has always felt less like sound and more like a doorway to my soul. The moment a familiar melody begins, something inside me loosens. My chest softens. My mind stops arguing with itself. And suddenly I’m not just here, I’m back there . Younger. Lighter. In rooms filled with possibility. In days that smelled like rain and reckless hope. Music doesn’t just remind me of the past. It resurrects it. There are songs that carry entire seasons of my life inside them. The first few notes and I can see the walls, the light, the version of myself I used to be. It’s strange how three minutes of rhythm can hold years of memory. Almost unfair. And then there’s Aina. With her, music wasn’t background noise. It was language. It was confession without having to confess. When we listened together, something shifted. We didn’t need to perform strength or composure or certainty. We just existed in the sound. No pretending. No roles. No explanations. Just two souls leaning into the sam...

All the previous post is mainly about what I learnt in the past 1 year plus. I have much to say but I want to try posting other things as well so that this blog can be a remanence of who I am, a reminder for those who care and love me when I'm gone, sort of a window to my mind. I come to realize that life itself is very abstract and full of wonders, only to be able to be grasp upon when we takes some time off, away from being too engaged with the ongoing life. There's so many things that is not as straight forward despite the nature of it appears to be so. Some have deeper meanings, some have alternate reality or understanding of it and I would like to start a string of series about looking at life differently.   “Iqra’ bismi rabbika alladhi khalaq” “Read (or Recite) in the name of your Lord who created.” (Surah Al-‘Alaq (96:1) ) For someone who appreciates the linguistic beauty of literature, “Iqra” feels symbolic. It’s not just an instruction, it’s an invitation into consci...

This series was never planned. It wasn’t outlined or structured with an end in mind. It unfolded the way life did, slowly, unevenly, and honestly. Each post was written from a place of learning, not teaching. From questions, not certainty. From a heart that had been stretched, tested, softened, and rebuilt. Looking back now, I realize this series marks a turning point in my life. Not because everything suddenly became easy. Not because I arrived at clarity or perfection. But because something fundamental shifted in how I see the world, and how I walk through it. I stopped needing to be right. I stopped needing control. I stopped measuring faith by outcomes. Instead, I learned mercy. For others. For myself. I learned Husnuzon, thinking well of Allah when life made little sense. I learned to surrender what I could not change, to be patient without silencing pain, to heal without demanding closure, to wait without despair, and to remain consistent even when the heart fe...