I did what? : a beginner dancer’s diary

Some of my 2018 goals was to commit to writing more.
Thus, here is some of my I-did-what series, a journey of exploring different fitness-adventures.

Here is an excerpt of something I wrote in 2016.



(c) poledancingadventures

If you had been a regular blog reader, you would have seen that four posts ago, I expressed my interest in taking up pole dancing classes. I decided to commit to having that YOLO mentality, and signed up for a 6-week beginner pole dancing class with zero expectations.

I am no dancer, but I love dancing. I did two years of rhythmic gymnastics in 4th grade and accidentally ventured into belly dancing and burlesque (I got the class time mixed up for Korean pop dancing) in freshman year of college and some ballroom in senior year.

I have been fascinated with pole dancing with its gracefulness and upper body strength. I have been telling a few good friends (now I’m telling the world!) that I have been going for pole classes and I definitely got interesting reactions, with one or two reacting very positively. It’s unfortunate that pole has been associated as an inappropriate dance, because while it requires lots of skin contact, it’s one of my favorite cardio activities that trains all parts of your body (with my favorite dance pops!)

I’m on my 3rd week of pole now, and have never been more excited to dance class. In beginner lessons, they require you to have more clothing and as the stunts get more difficult, you are required to bare more skin.

One thing I’m loving about pole is that you can do these pirouettes as much as you want without being a ballerina. You get to do some pirouettes in ballroom but your partner has to guide you into it so it’s limited. Here, you get to spin around the pole at any speed, with the pole being your partner, but you are in full control (Pole would be the perfect feminist sport!).

I didn’t get photos, but my first week of pole were just bruises and a sore arm. 3rd week included more spins, which I am feeling the sprain on my left foot.

Onto more Ariana Grande!


I had a blog of the past. And it taught me.

Picture this: a heavy-hearted person needs to speak their mind. Not contained within 120 characters, not contained within pictures, not contained within a community of 1,500 friends.

Body language can convey more, real interactions can show more, but words within a screen is left to the interpretation of the reader;

My circumstances. I know myself, yet I fail to correct myself, and then a cycle happens.

An adult at work, finally able to concentrate her productivity in things that make money rather than running out of savings.

I found myself succumbing to the flaws I hate to be in, but also am glad that I’m aware of it before it goes to shit.

I stay strong and read the mistakes written in my old blog, wondering how old me was able to breathe and carry on, and then, I learned to love myself again.



Yesterday makes it one year since I’m back in Malaysia.

It took a trip to Sydney to kick some sense into my reality, that my home country isn’t too bad, there are things I should appreciate, like the traffic-free trip to KLIA as compared to the congested lanes to the Sydney airport.

The past one year was me battling with my perception vs others. There were two things that were recurring: I was home “for good” and I was fat.

The fact that I was not the “girl who succeeded in staying in US”, while my other peers did was something I wished I could have done better. I did have a job, yes, but I was not keen in being in the company I was working at, being bonded for three years on the H1B visa was more cons than pros. Although I’m sad to leave my second home and the “Harvest dorm”, I was prepared to make changes. I however, wish it didn’t mean leaving the entire country altogether.

Fast forward, so many things has happened since then. I got a new job, reconnected with my friends, getting used to the hip things in town, attended my best friend’s wedding, hosted a friend from US, travelled out of the country twice, and drove home drunk (the last part still doesn’t beat my YOLO hangover drive from Milwaukee to Madison on an expired license and insurance), eat kangaroo loin, ran a 6k, deal with parking problems and other things I attempt to fill my time. I’ve liked my time here better, but part of me still wishes I could be back in America some time soon.

The comments of me being fat, was a fact. I had been adding 7 pounds/year in the US. I walked way more there than Malaysia, but I also ate way more and didn’t like leaving leftovers. I would cook half a box of pasta for lunch and just down it all. I would eat two large bags of Lays potato chips while studying for my finals. I’ve always been a big eater, but I was now a binger.

Fast forward, I stop cooking pasta. I get in a few runs on the treadmill from time to time. Most of the clothes in my closet are unflattering. I ate less for dinner. The comments don’t change, but I’m working on it.





I’m mad about flowers.


But today is not one of happiness.

It was graduation week in Wisconsin-Madison last weekend and it had slipped my mind. I knew it was May but when you’re not reminded of spring allergies it just seems like an eternity loop of July humidity.

One of my good friends graduated. On this day, I would have bought flowers for a couple of them (who doesn’t like receiving flowers?) — paying it forward to the one time I had received flowers from others as well.

I was a day late to ask her fiancé to purchase some flowers for her — I told him I could Venmo the money to him and was hoping he could buy some for her (again who doesn’t like receiving flowers?) — but the only thing he said was :

” I don’t have Venmo.”

No like “it’s okay I got her flowers” or “sure” or “it’s already passed graduation”. And it wasn’t like her fiancé was a total stranger — I ran with this person on a weekly basis at one point of time around the park.

You would expect someone to respond to you slightly differently after not talking for a few months and is typing this on the other side of the world.

And yet when I offered alternative payments, he just didn’t respond.

In conclusion, I didn’t get her flowers. Part of me thinks whether my friendship with her is worth it considering how cold that message came in.

Or maybe I was the one who came up with a not-so-convincing message to get him to help me. Also this was the guy I asked if I could borrow his car for a year to travel to work as I didn’t want to buy a car that would only be utilized for such a short period of time. You may be able to guess what his response was.


If one were to write a sad story, one would be deemed as depressed.

If one were to write a victim’s story, one would be deemed as seeking attention.

Could one write not to gain any sympathy but simply a few words of thought — something to reflect and question?

it wasn’t too long ago, I told a friend to come by to visit me in my home country and I would be excited to take him around since it’s much safer to travel with a guy than a girl solo tripping. What was I afraid of? I hadn’t board the LRT on a daily basis — but I found myself worried for scenarios popularized in the media.

Yet on my train ride — packed and barely any room to move — back home from work with a friend, such scenarios did happen and no one was capable of doing anything about it. It was “barely anything” — a foreign male touching the bottoms of girls and trying to lift up skirts. All my friend could say was “you’re not the only victim” and continued to watch. Nobody stopped him — I couldn’t bring myself to face him– some didn’t even realize he was even doing something to them. Calling him out may provoke him and there was a fear of catching further attention on something that was rather inconspicuous.

It’s so easy to brush it off so long you think it’s “barely anything, people have gone through worse” thoughts. Why was it hard to say “stop doing that?” to his face? Every part of me wanted nothing to do with it but yet I was present with this scenario and force to deal with it.


It’s easier to do nothing when things happen and try to just get away as much as you can — but is it the right decision?

Still alive!

It’s harder to procrastinate when your work environment doesn’t allow you to access websites with any login (other than company websites) so I haven’t been writing.

I’ve moved on to another chapter at work; another place to fit in; another challenge to conquer. Some parts feel like deja vu, some are new, but most of it feels constant.

It’s like I moved up a level in my career in Madison and moved down again in Malaysia. My career feels stagnant, like going through a game and never moving past level 1. Just when I think I can move on to level 2, an obstacle will pop up – telling me that I’m not cut out for level 2 just yet.

Even after close to two years past graduation,  it still feels like square one.

A few days before my job begins, I’ve been wondering whether being back here is good.

I still struggle with my purpose. I question my path. I wonder if this is what God has installed for me.

I grieved over certain memories; ones that are not worth hanging on to. Every day I tell myself it’s going to be different, but the words spilled are of hatred and not of consideration.

I hate to say “America is better”. Because it shouldn’t be.