Life

This morning began in the most ordinary way—my body unwell, my head clouded, my nose blocked by the small humiliations of flu. Sneezing comes with a strange vulnerability; it reduces thought to reflex. I decided to take a bath, hoping the heat might loosen not only the congestion but the mind itself. Water has always felt like a quiet reset button—steam rising, thoughts softening, a temporary return to something elemental. As with every morning, my body followed its own ancient schedule. There are things we do not negotiate with.

It was there, in that private, unguarded moment, that death arrived—not with ceremony, not with preparation, but as an attachment on WhatsApp. A photograph. A short line of text. Chen Yi Quan is dead.

My first instinct was disbelief. It felt absurd, almost offensive, to accept it immediately. A scam, perhaps. A cruel mistake. After all, I had spoken to him only days ago. He had apologised for the delay in returning my painting from Bangkok. He explained his silence—three months remanded after being caught with cannabis taken overseas. He spoke calmly, even lucidly, about loss: forty thousand gone, a studio and gallery no longer viable, the need to work for others just to keep his family afloat.

I remember telling him not to worry about my calligraphy artwork. Family mattered more. I told him to stay cool. To take care of himself. I reminded him that prison changes things, that finding work would not be easy, but that one step at a time was still a step. He sounded steady. Tired, but not frantic.

He was an artist—deeply so—and a trained psychologist who had spent years counselling troubled youths. He understood the terrain of the mind, perhaps too well. He also smoked. I had often seen him step outside for a cigarette, a small pause in a long, demanding life. There was nothing theatrical about it—just a man trying to hold himself together between responsibilities.

He had been in terrible shape since his wife died months earlier. A beautiful woman, gone too soon, leaving him with a three-year-old son. Grief does not announce how deeply it reorganises a person; it works quietly, shifting internal architecture until familiar supports are no longer where they once were.

The last time I saw him in person was at his studio in Singapore. I delivered my calligraphic artwork there. He later brought the work to Bangkok for an exhibition he curated, showing several artists together. One of them was Doctor Ho, whom I knew from his teaching days at NUS. By then, Chen’s wife had already passed away. The studio carried a stillness that was not silence, but absence.

This week, death felt relentless. Andrew—a long-time friend and former partner—passed away in Ipoh. Then Liu, the master planner of Singapore, gone within the same span of days. Names I recognised. Lives that had weight and consequence. I have never liked visiting wakes. Since young, I treated death as a bad omen. I would detour void decks, hold my breath, walk faster. Somewhere inside me was the belief that breathing less might reduce exposure—that restraint could shield me from something contagious. Perhaps it was superstition; perhaps it was an early instinct for emotional self-preservation.

When I called the number that sent the message, a man answered—Harry, Chen’s cousin. His voice was factual, restrained. He told me Chen had been remanded, released, and had spiralled into depression. He was seeing a psychologist. He knew he had to work, to care for his child, to support his parents. Responsibility was not unclear to him. But clarity does not guarantee endurance. On his way to IMH, something snapped. He ended his life.

That was when the thought settled fully: life is unbearably fragile.

We speak often of success, of growth, of achievement—but we rarely speak of what it takes to sustain life itself. Physical health. Psychological strength. Social grounding. Remove one, and the structure weakens. Depression and drugs are no longer rare exceptions; they have become common causes of lives cut short. Quiet endings, often invisible until they are final.

What I take from this is not despair, but a lesson that must be faced honestly. Life is precious, and sustaining it requires effort and determination. We cannot drift through life assuming softness will protect us. We must build capacity and capability. We must train the body and the mind to withstand nature’s force and life’s inevitable bashing. Life will strike—this should be expected, accepted, and met with movement rather than surrender.

Resilience is not about avoiding pain; it is about continuing despite it. Responsibility—to oneself, to family, to community—is not a burden but a stabiliser. And collectiveness matters. Alone, the weight is often unbearable. Together, the same challenges become more manageable. Shared effort does not eliminate suffering, but it distributes it in a way that allows people to endure.

I find myself asking what kind of society we are building. Not merely an affluent one—but a resilient one. Wealth without toughness creates brittleness. Comfort without discipline produces collapse. What sustains life is training—of the body, the mind, the will. Focus. Endurance. The ability to function with little. The capacity to stay cool under pressure, to gather information, analyse, and act. To remain open to learning. To share what one knows.

I think of my own formation. National Service did not make me cruel; it made me capable. It taught me to endure discomfort, to operate with scarcity, to trust preparation. To keep faith when outcomes are uncertain. To stay calm when chaos is loud. These were not military values alone—they were life values.

And then there is the question of children. Do we protect them, or do we prepare them? Too much protection makes the world unbearable when it finally arrives. Too much toughness strips away tenderness. I now believe the answer lies in rhythm. Love, yes—but also exposure. Shelter, but not insulation. A gradual training so the soul develops calluses without losing sensitivity.

Age catches us all. Each stage of life is preparation for the next. Youth builds capacity. Adulthood tests it. Later years distil what remains. The body weakens, but the mind—if trained—can become clearer, more generous, more precise. Learning and sharing are not luxuries; they are survival mechanisms.

I choose to honour the dead not by fear, but by living better. By breathing fully, not less. By training myself—physically, mentally, socially—to endure without becoming numb. By helping others where I can. By staying cool. Staying alert. Staying human.

Life is fragile—but it is also immensely valuable. And it asks of us not avoidance, but participation. So I continue, carrying these names with me—not as omens, but as reminders that life must be held actively, collectively, and with resolve.