Today isn’t actually the anniversary of my move to Singapore—that happened sometime in April. Lately, I’ve been ruminating about my life so far, something I often do during idle moments, and I’ve realized that next to the Philippines, my home country, Singapore is where I’ve lived the longest. It has now surpassed my time in Canada (four years) and Hong Kong (two years). That’s a fifth of my life spent here. And in that time, I’ve grown in ways I didn’t expect, learning not just how to navigate a city, but how to settle into myself within it.
By chance, my former boss, whom I’ve met for lunch today, is leaving the city-state after being here for seven years too to return to his home country, the Netherlands. There was something poignant in that, watching someone else close a chapter, while mine, somehow, still feels open-ended. So I dare ask myself: Where to next?
When I try to imagine it, I can’t really think of anywhere I’d rather be. I love the life I’ve built here: the routines, the small adventures, the quiet independence, and the sense of self I’ve come to know. Some days, it feels a little like living out my own version of Sex and the City—whimsical, slightly cinematic, full of little main-character moments. Carrie Bradshaw, perhaps, but a little tamer. Whether or not I’ll end up with my own Big… well, that’s another story.
Singapore, in both practical and poetic ways, has grounded me. I don’t know where the next chapter leads, but for now, this one feels like it’s still being written—and I’m content to let it unfold.
