finding my voice in the face of rejection and insecurity.
Am I a failure?
Even if I weren’t, I really do feel like one.
It’s been eight months since I last set foot in Jakarta. The city I once knew with its relentless noise, the glimmer of high-rises, and the dreams that stack up like skyscrapers — some standing tall, some abandoned mid-construction. The blaring car horns echo through narrow streets, while the hurried footsteps of office workers race to meet the next MRT, a rhythm I used to know so well.
“Explore all you want,” my inner voice whispers, “just don’t forget the way back.”
After five o’clock, my mind doesn’t settle like it should. Instead, it spins, calculating the goals still out of reach, the to-do lists that never seem to shrink. I used to believe that if I pushed hard enough, everything would fall into place. But lately, it feels like no matter how fast I run, the finish line moves farther away.
I think about those evenings in the city — where people seem to glide past, all heading somewhere important. I wonder if I’ve been left behind, stuck chasing dreams that don’t quite fit, like trying to force puzzle pieces together that weren’t made to connect. It’s exhausting, trying to keep up with a world that doesn’t stop for breath, especially when I’m still figuring out where I’m headed.
I used to tell myself that by now, I’d have it all figured out. That by 22, I’d be living in Jakarta, making my mark. But now, the doubts creep in. Every unfinished project feels like a missed opportunity. Every setback, a reflection of my inadequacies. And sometimes, I’m not even sure what I’m chasing anymore — just that I’m supposed to be running.
The city looms large in my mind, not just as a place, but as a symbol of all the things I want and haven’t yet achieved.
I often wonder about the things I never did, the battles I never fought. The career paths I never pursued because I doubted my ability or because I wasn’t ready to face rejection. There were moments I chose safety over risk, comfort over challenge. And in those moments, I let opportunities slip through my fingers — each one a door I chose not to open. But now, looking back, I realize those choices weren’t failures; they were part of figuring out what I truly wanted.
I’ve always dreamed of making it in the advertising world — imagined myself pitching bold ideas in meetings, crafting campaigns that would stick in people’s minds long after they’d seen them. The glamour of the industry, the rush of creativity, the recognition that comes with success — it all seemed so close, yet so distant. And I thought, by now, I’d be a part of that world, already living in Jakarta, already thriving. But life has a way of making us question our timelines, forcing us to slow down when we want to rush ahead.
Can’t help but feel a sense of insecurity every time I sit down to write. Writing. The sole thing I love the most. It’s strange because, deep down, I know that writing has always been my way of making sense of the world. But lately, it feels like a weight — a nagging reminder of the gaps in my skill set, the perfection I can’t quite reach. Every sentence I craft feels like it’s being dissected, as if I’m constantly anticipating criticism before the words even leave my head.
It’s not just the act of writing that feels difficult; it’s the pressure I place on myself to make it flawless. I think back to the times I’ve missed deadlines, the projects I couldn’t see through to the end. And those experiences cling to me, reminding me of all the ways I’ve fallen short. I’ve always had big aspirations for my writing — to tell stories, to craft campaigns, to inspire — but sometimes it feels like I’m chasing something I’ll never be good enough for.
It’s easy to dwell on what I haven’t done. The plans I’ve left incomplete. The steps I never took because I didn’t feel ready. But there’s another side to the story — a quieter, more positive side. Each delay, each unfinished project, has taught me something valuable. Every misstep was a lesson in patience, a nudge to refine my vision.
And maybe the paths I didn’t take weren’t for me after all.
I’m learning that growth isn’t always about speed; it’s about direction. It’s about understanding that some dreams need more time, that becoming the person I want to be is a process. I may not have reached Jakarta yet, but I’m building the foundation for something bigger. Every day, I’m getting closer to the version of myself who will walk confidently into that city, knowing exactly where I’m headed.
The battles I didn’t fight? Maybe they weren’t my battles to begin with. Maybe the real war is within myself — overcoming doubt, embracing who I am and what I bring to the table. And slowly, I’m winning that war. I’m learning to be kinder to myself, to see the small victories in the day-to-day hustle. I’m learning that it’s okay to not have all the answers yet.
There’s still time. Time to live the dreams I’ve been holding onto. Time to take the risks I once avoided. Time to become the creative, the professional, the person I’ve always envisioned. And when I do finally set foot in Jakarta again, I’ll know that every step I took to get there — every hesitation, every moment of uncertainty — was worth it.
Because I’ll be arriving on my own terms, ready to chase the career I’ve always dreamed of, knowing that I’ve earned my place in the race.
And to you, Jakarta — city of dreams and endless motion — I’ll return when the time is right.
Not as the person who once stood on your streets feeling overwhelmed by the weight of expectations, but as someone who’s learned to carry her own pace, her own story. I know now that it’s not about keeping up with your rush, but finding my own rhythm within it.
When I come back, I’ll bring with me the strength born from my insecurities, the growth that came from every stumble, and a heart ready to write a new chapter. Till then, keep shining. I’ll find my way home.
