A holy month that always brings space for silence, reflection, and a deeper sense of time and life. Amid the busyness and constant change, Ramadan reminds me to pause, look back at the journey so far, and welcome what’s ahead with a hopeful heart.
Five years ago, I wrote about the beginning of my life’s journey — about silence, about home being more than a place, and about searching for meaning in a rapidly changing world. Now, at this same moment, I want to share how that journey has continued, about changes that aren’t always obvious, and about new meaning I’ve found in family, love, and everyday life.
I was born on Nyepi Day. A day of silence.
And for the longest time, that silence was home — a space where I could think, write, walk, and wander. Back in 2020, I introduced myself not as someone from a place, but as someone from a quiet.
That was five years ago.
In March 2020, the world fell apart. The pandemic rewrote our lives — not just in headlines, but in the tiniest of routines.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t come home for Lebaran. I didn’t pack my bag for Bangkinang. I didn’t sit at the front porch of my parents’ house, didn’t taste Mama’s rendang, didn’t hear the voices of my siblings filling the living room. That year, distance wasn’t a choice — it was reality.
It was a year of paused plans, quiet grief, and long, long calls over unstable signals.
I wrote about it then: how not coming home was more than physical — it was emotional.
It made me realize: home is not always a place you go to, sometimes it’s something you carry inside, and miss deeply.
And then, in 2021, I got married.
Still in the middle of the pandemic.
Not in a grand hall. Not with a hundred guests. Just us, our families, and faith in the unknown.
It was a wedding shaped by limitations — masks, health protocols, uncertainty — but also filled with sincerity. It wasn’t the celebration I once imagined, but it became something else entirely:
a promise whispered in the middle of a fragile world.
That moment marked the beginning of a new chapter. One I had no map for, but I was finally ready to walk through it — not alone.
Then, in April 2022, we welcomed our son: Muhammad Alkhalifi Yuwanda.
He was born under the soft evening light before Maghrib Ramadan — a time full of blessings and calm.
There are no words that could fully capture the feeling of seeing him for the first time. His cry, his warmth, his name.
In that moment, the world became smaller and bigger at once.
Smaller, because now everything revolved around a child.
Bigger, because love had stretched into places I never knew existed.
In 2020, I was still working a job that paid the bills but not quite fed the soul. I changed offices once — early 2023 — but the questions I carried remained the same.
I moved between numbers and systems, but deep down, I always belonged more to sentences and stories.
I was unmarried.
Still waking up to my own clock.
Still packing my bag on impulse.
Still writing when the night was long enough.
Now it’s 2025.
I’m married.
I have a child.
I no longer work at the same place.
I no longer wake up at my own pace.
But strangely, I’ve never felt more like myself.
I used to think life changed in milestones — birthdays, job titles, travel dates. But now I know: real change happens in moments no one else sees. A quiet afternoon holding your child for the first time. A night where your partner falls asleep beside you, and suddenly the world feels softer. I didn’t need a map anymore. I just needed to stay.
They say becoming a father changes you.
They're right — but it’s not a sudden transformation. It’s subtle. Gradual. Quiet.
Much like a mountain rising — inch by inch, over the years. You don’t notice it until you look back, and realize you’ve grown a summit in your soul.
I no longer write just for clarity.
I write to remember. To preserve. To pass on.
Some stories are no longer mine alone.
I still hike, sometimes.
The air up there is still sacred. But now, every step I take, I carry more than my own weight.
There’s a name waiting for me at home. A little voice that says “Papa.”
And suddenly, even silence sounds different.
There are still days I feel lost — days when the noise outside drowns the quiet within. But even in that noise, I’ve learned to listen. Not to the world, but to the people who now share my name, my space, my life. Silence has evolved for me. It’s no longer solitude — it’s presence. It’s knowing I’m needed, and showing up.
So, who am I now?
I am still the boy born in Bangkinang.
Still the firstborn of four, still drawn to the in-between, still fond of dusk and unfinished thoughts.
But I am no longer just a seeker. I am also a keeper.
I keep a family.
I keep promises.
I keep growing — quietly, faithfully, fully.
Thanks for stopping by.
This space remains a journal of thoughts, memories, and everything in between.
If any part of it stays with you, I’m grateful.
“Life shifts not in grand moments, but in the consistent acts of showing up, caring, and carrying more than just yourself. It’s in these moments we build who we truly are.”
Jakarta, March 31 2025
Aspi Yuwanda
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