Chapter 11 Watching My Parents Age, Then Becoming Them

 Chapter 11  Watching My Parents Age, Then Becoming Them

When I was young, I never imagined that one day I would become like my parents. To me, they were simply Mum and Dad—the people who seemed to know everything, worry about everything, and somehow had the strength to keep going no matter what life threw at them.

When I was a child, I watched them grow older without really understanding what ageing meant. Their hair slowly became grey. Their movements became slower. They took longer to climb stairs and needed more time to get ready in the morning. I noticed these things, but I never thought much about them.

After all, they were my parents. Parents were supposed to be there forever.

As the years passed, I began to notice little changes. My father became quieter. My mother became more careful about her health. They started talking more about doctors, medicines, aches and pains. Conversations that once centred on work, family and the future gradually included discussions about retirement, old friends and people they knew who had passed away.

At times, I became impatient with them.

“Why are you worrying so much?”

“Why don't you move a little faster?”

“Why do you keep repeating the same story?”

I did not realise that I was watching my own future.

Then came the day when I began to recognise my parents in myself.

I noticed that I was becoming more careful when walking down the stairs. I began to think twice before doing things that once seemed effortless. I started appreciating a good night's sleep more than a late night out. I became interested in my health, my appointments and the small aches that I once ignored.

And, surprisingly, I began repeating myself.

Sometimes I hear myself giving advice to younger people and suddenly realise: That sounds exactly like my father.

I worry about things that perhaps do not need worrying about. I remind people to be careful. I tell younger people to save for the future. I sometimes complain about how quickly technology changes.

Then I laugh.

I have become my parents.

But becoming them is not necessarily something to fear.

With age comes something I did not fully understand when I was young: perspective. My parents had experienced disappointments, difficulties, losses and responsibilities that I could not appreciate at the time. Their caution was often wisdom. Their worries often came from love. Their repeated advice was their way of trying to protect the people they cared about.

Today, when I look in the mirror and see the signs of ageing, I sometimes see my parents looking back at me.

Their faces may no longer be there, but pieces of them remain—in the way I think, the things I say, the values I hold and the way I care about others.

Ageing, I have learned, is not simply about becoming older.

It is also about carrying forward the people who shaped us.

I watched my parents age.

I watched them become older.

And somewhere along the way, without even noticing, I became them.

Perhaps that is one of life's quiet gifts: we do not lose our parents completely. A little of them continues to live through us.

If you would like, I can also make this �⁠more emotional, �⁠more humorous, or �⁠more personal and autobiographical to fit the tone of the other chapters in your book.

Chapter 10 The Freedom of No Longer Caring What People Think

Chapter 10

The Freedom of No Longer Caring What People Think

There is a particular kind of quiet that arrives, uninvited but welcome, somewhere past the middle of life. It doesn't announce itself with fireworks. It slips in during an ordinary afternoon, when you realize you haven't rehearsed a conversation in your head before having it, haven't chosen your words to please someone who wasn't going to remember them anyway, haven't dressed for anyone's eyes but your own. That quiet is freedom, and it takes a lifetime to earn.

For most of our younger years, we live as if on a stage we never auditioned for. Every choice — a haircut, a career, a way of laughing — gets filtered through an imagined audience. We flinch before we've even done anything wrong. We shrink ourselves to fit expectations that were often never spoken aloud, only felt, the way a plant knows which way the light falls without being told.

Old age, if we let it, undoes this. Not because we stop caring about people — we may love them more fiercely than ever — but because we stop needing their approval to know who we are. The opinions of strangers lose their grip. The judgment of acquaintances becomes background noise, no more urgent than weather in another city. What remains is something sturdier: our own sense of what is true and good, tested by decades of living, no longer borrowed from anyone else.

This freedom is not indifference. It isn't a hardened heart or a closed door. It is, instead, a kind of clarity. When you stop performing for an audience, you can finally hear your own voice. You can say what you mean without softening it into unrecognizable shapes. You can wear the ridiculous hat, sing off-key, cry in public, change your mind, admit you were wrong, ask for help, rest when you're tired — all without the old terror of being seen as less than perfect. Because you have already been seen, by yourself, in the unflattering light of your own memory, and you are still here.

There is grief tucked inside this freedom too, if we're honest. It came at a cost — the cost of years spent worrying, editing, apologizing for taking up space. We cannot get those years back. But we can spend what remains differently. We can let our opinions be unfashionable. We can let our joy be uncool. We can let our faces show exactly what we feel, wrinkles and all, without smoothing them into something more acceptable.

Old age, then, is not only decline — though it is that too, in ways that are real and sometimes hard. It is also arrival. It is the long-delayed permission to simply be, without translation, without apology, without the exhausting work of managing what other people think. That permission is worth almost everything it cost to get here.

Chapter 9 Fears I have outgrown fears I have gained

 Chapter 9

Fears I Have Outgrown and Fears I Have Gained

Growing old changes more than the colour of our hair or the number of candles on a birthday cake. It changes our fears too. Looking back, I realise that some of the things that once frightened me no longer matter. Other fears have appeared quietly with age. They are different from the fears of my younger years, but perhaps more meaningful.

When I was young, I worried about what people thought of me. I wanted to be successful, respected and accepted. A mistake could occupy my mind for days. I feared failure and worried about disappointing others. Today, I have largely outgrown these fears. I have learned that nobody lives a perfect life. We make mistakes, learn from them and move on. At my age, I am less interested in impressing people and more interested in being useful, kind and true to myself.

I have also outgrown my fear of getting older. When I was younger, old age seemed distant and almost frightening. I imagined it as a period of weakness and dependence. Now that I am travelling through it, I see that ageing is not simply about losing things. It is also about gaining perspective. We become more patient. We learn what is important and what is not. We become less troubled by small disappointments.

Some material fears have also disappeared. I no longer feel the same need to have the newest possessions or to keep up with others. Time has taught me that a peaceful evening, good conversation and the company of family and friends can be worth much more than expensive things.

But growing older has brought new fears.

One of the greatest is the fear of losing people I love. Friends and relatives who once seemed permanently part of my life are no longer here. Each loss reminds me that our time together is limited. I have learned not to take relationships for granted.

I also worry more about becoming a burden to my family. I want to remain independent for as long as possible. I know, however, that ageing may eventually require help. Accepting this possibility is difficult because we spend much of our lives learning to stand on our own feet.

Another fear is that of running out of time. When young, we think we have endless tomorrows. Growing older makes tomorrow feel more precious. There are still books to read, people to meet, places to see and things to contribute. I sometimes wonder whether I have enough time to complete all that I hope to do.

Yet perhaps the greatest lesson of ageing is that fear should not prevent us from living. Some fears disappear because experience teaches us they were never worth carrying. Others remain because they come from love, responsibility and the awareness that life is precious.

I cannot stop growing older. But I can choose how I grow older. I can face my fears with gratitude, humour and courage. And perhaps that is the final freedom of old age: knowing that while I cannot control the passing of time, I can still decide how I spend it.

Chapter 8 What I Know Now That I Should Have Known at age 80

 Chapter 8

What I Know Now That I Should Have Known at Age 30

Thirty felt like a deadline. A quiet, invisible clock ticking toward some version of "figured out" that I assumed everyone else had already reached. What I know now is that the clock was fiction. Nobody has it figured out — they've just gotten better at looking like they do.

Comparison is a tax you don't have to pay. At thirty, I measured my life against a highlight reel: other people's job titles, relationships, bank accounts, houses. I didn't know that everyone is running their own race, on their own terrain, at their own pace, and that the only useful comparison is to who I was last year. Chasing someone else's timeline just guarantees you'll always feel behind.

Most decisions are reversible. I treated career moves, relationships, and even where I lived like permanent verdicts on who I was. In reality, almost nothing is final. Jobs can be left. Cities can be changed. Relationships can end and begin again. Treating decisions as irreversible made me cautious in ways that cost me more than the mistakes I was trying to avoid.

Rest is not a reward you earn — it's a requirement. I believed exhaustion was proof of commitment. I wore busyness like a badge. What I didn't understand is that burnout doesn't announce itself; it creeps in disguised as productivity until the productivity stops. Protecting energy matters as much as spending it.

Financial habits compound quietly, and starting matters more than the amount. I waited for a "real" salary to start saving, not realizing that the habit itself — even small and imperfect — was the valuable part. Time in the market, time building any skill, beats waiting for perfect conditions.

People will forget your mistakes faster than you will. I replayed embarrassing moments for years after everyone else had moved on. Nobody's carrying your failures the way you are; they're too busy carrying their own.

Boundaries are not rejection. I said yes to things I didn't want to do because I equated boundaries with conflict. I didn't yet know that saying no clearly and kindly is a form of respect — for the other person's time and for your own.

Health is not a future project. I treated my body like an assumption. What I know now is that the habits you build in your thirties are the ones you'll be grateful for — or paying for — in your fifties.

You don't need to know your "purpose." I thought there was a singular calling waiting to be discovered, and that not knowing it meant I was failing. Purpose isn't found; it's built, slowly, through the things you keep choosing to do.

If I could hand my thirty-year-old self one sentence, it would be this: you are not behind, you are not broken, and the version of your life that feels unfinished is simply still being written.

Chapter 7 Perspective and Wisdom

Chapter 7

Perspective and Wisdom

Growing old has taught me that age is not simply the number of years we have lived. It is also the number of experiences we have collected, the mistakes we have made, the people we have met, the challenges we have overcome, and the lessons we have learned along the way.

When I was young, I often looked at life from a very narrow perspective. The problems of the day seemed enormous. A setback at work, a disagreement with someone, a missed opportunity or a financial worry could occupy my thoughts for days. With age, I have learned that most problems look different when viewed from a distance. Time has a way of putting things into perspective.

Perspective is one of the gifts of growing older. We begin to understand what is important and what is not. We become less concerned about impressing others and more concerned about living meaningfully. We realise that possessions can be replaced, money can be earned again, and opportunities can sometimes return. But time cannot be recovered, and relationships cannot always be repaired.

I have also learned that we should not take people for granted. Family, friends, colleagues and even casual acquaintances may influence our lives in ways we only appreciate much later. Some people remain with us for decades; others pass through our lives briefly. Each leaves something behind—a memory, a lesson, a kindness or sometimes even a warning.

Wisdom, I believe, is not knowing all the answers. It is knowing which questions are worth asking. It is understanding that we do not always have to be right. When we are young, we may argue to prove our point. As we grow older, we learn that sometimes it is better to listen, understand and let the matter go.

Age also teaches humility. We discover that despite our experience, we can still make mistakes. The world continues to change, and younger generations will often know things that we do not. Instead of resisting change, perhaps wisdom is accepting that every generation has something to teach the other.

Growing older has also changed my definition of success. Earlier in life, success might have meant career achievements, financial security, recognition or status. Today, I see success differently. It is having people who care about you, having the opportunity to contribute to society, remaining useful, and being able to look back without too many regrets.

Perhaps the greatest wisdom that comes with age is learning to appreciate the present. We spend much of our younger years preparing for tomorrow—education, career, family, retirement. Suddenly, we discover that tomorrow has become today. The years have passed quietly while we were busy planning for them.

I now understand that life is not measured only by its length but by the meaning we give to the years. Growing old gives us the opportunity to look back, learn from yesterday and live more thoughtfully today.

If I have gained any wisdom, it is this: do not wait until old age to appreciate life. The best time to value your family, your friends, your health, your community and the simple pleasures around you is now.

Old age may take away some of our speed, strength and youthful appearance. But if we allow it, it can give us something equally valuable—a wider perspective, a calmer mind and the wisdom to know what truly matters.

Chapter 6 The decades that helped shape me

Chapter 6 The Decades That Helped Shape Me, One by One

When I look back at my life, I realise that I did not become the person I am today in one dramatic moment. I was shaped slowly, decade by decade, by the people I met, the places I lived, the work I did, the mistakes I made and the experiences that stayed with me.

The 1940s – The Beginning

The 1940s were my childhood years, a time when life was simpler but not necessarily easier. Singapore was going through difficult times, especially during the Japanese Occupation. Those early experiences taught my generation the importance of family, discipline and making do with what we had. There was little waste because there was little to waste.

The 1950s – Discovering the World

The 1950s were my teenage years. Singapore was changing rapidly, and so was I. School, friendships and the excitement of a changing society opened my eyes to a much bigger world. I began to understand that education was not only about passing examinations. It was about learning how to think, communicate and find my place in society.

The 1960s – Finding My Direction

The 1960s brought independence and enormous change to Singapore. As a young adult, I was beginning my working life and discovering my interests and ambitions. Broadcasting and communications became an important part of my journey. I learned the value of teamwork, responsibility and doing a job well.

The 1970s – Building a Career

The 1970s were years of hard work and responsibility. Singapore was developing quickly, and there was a strong sense that everyone had a part to play. My career gave me opportunities to meet people from different walks of life. These experiences taught me that success is not measured only by position or money, but also by what we contribute to others.

The 1980s – Responsibility and Service

By the 1980s, life had become more demanding. With greater responsibilities came greater opportunities to serve. I became increasingly involved in public life and began to appreciate the importance of looking beyond myself. Issues such as the environment also began to interest me more deeply.

The 1990s – Giving Back

The 1990s brought another important chapter. Public service gave me a closer understanding of the hopes, worries and aspirations of ordinary Singaporeans. My interest in environmental matters grew stronger. I began to see that development and environmental protection must go hand in hand.

The 2000s – Reflection

The new millennium gave me more time to look back and reflect. Technology was changing the way we lived, communicated and worked. I realised that life was moving faster, but faster was not always better. I began to value relationships, memories and meaningful activities more than possessions.

The 2010s – A New Purpose

As I grew older, retirement did not mean stopping. It meant finding new ways to contribute. Volunteering, environmental activities and community work gave me a sense of purpose. I discovered that giving time can sometimes be more valuable than giving money.

The 2020s – Growing Older, Growing Wiser

Now, as I journey into old age, I see every decade as a chapter in one long story. Some chapters were happy, some difficult, and some I would happily rewrite. But all of them helped shape me.

Growing old, I have learned, is not simply about losing youth. It is about gaining perspective. The years have taught me to appreciate people, cherish memories, accept change and, above all, remain useful.

My journey is still continuing. The best part of growing old may be that I finally have the time to understand the journey I have taken.

My Giving Journey

.

Giving Back: A Journey of Volunteering and Service

Giving back to society has always been important to me. I believe that we all have something to contribute, regardless of our age or position in life. Giving does not always mean donating money. It can mean giving our time, sharing our knowledge, helping someone in need, or simply doing something useful for the community.

One of the activities closest to my heart is volunteering with the Waterways Watch Society, where I have helped to pick up litter from Singapore’s waterways, including Punggol Waterway, Marina Bay and the Singapore River. Seeing the amount of rubbish collected from our waterways was an eye-opening experience. It reminded me that environmental protection is not only the responsibility of the Government. Every individual and every household has a part to play.

I have also volunteered to deliver food to St Andrew’s Day Care Centre, which serves autistic youths. Such experiences have taught me that giving is not only about what we do for others, but also about what we learn from them. A small act of kindness can make a meaningful difference to another person’s day.

Over the years, I have also participated in volunteer activities involving NEA, NParks and PUB. These experiences have allowed me to contribute to Singapore’s environment and learn more about the work being done to keep our country clean, green and liveable.

Another area of volunteering has been with SASCO, where I have helped distribute pamphlets to households and participated in gardening activities. These may appear to be simple tasks, but community work often depends on people being willing to do the small things that collectively make a difference.

I have also supported fundraising efforts for the GCTEnable Fund under SG Enable, helping to encourage contributions for people who need support. Giving to a worthy cause is one way of building a more caring and inclusive society.

My writing and publishing projects are another form of giving. I am working on a book about climate change, sustainability and what households can do to reduce their environmental impact. My aim is to make the subject practical and easy to understand, so that ordinary families can take action in their own homes. I have also worked on books documenting the history of broadcasting in Singapore, preserving memories and stories for future generations.

Looking ahead, I hope to continue this journey. From around 2027 to 2029, I would like to give sustainability talks at libraries, community clubs and schools. I also hope to help establish a Toastmasters club for autistic youths, giving them opportunities to develop confidence and communication skills.

Finally, I hope to encourage Toastmasters Clubs (TMCs) to do more giving and volunteering within their communities.

My philosophy is simple: we should leave something useful behind when we leave this world. It need not be wealth or fame. It can be cleaner waterways, a greener environment, a helping hand, a book, a lesson shared, or a person whose life has been made a little better.

Giving is not a one-time activity. It is a way of life. And there is always more we can do.