Confusion

Melancholy by Edvard Munch

As I enter my thirties, I find myself standing in uncertainty, unsure of which path to take.

In my early twenties, life felt neatly mapped out. I imagined myself teaching Indonesian abroad, living inside new cultures, and letting unfamiliar streets become my own. I dreamed of walking through St. Stephen’s Green after work in Dublin, or catching a train to Crema while working at an embassy in Italy. Maybe I’d end up in Australia, or France, or wherever the road led me, so long as it was outside Indonesia.

It wasn’t that I disliked home. It was simply that I was fascinated by other places, perhaps shaped by the movies I grew up with, which made the world beyond my own borders feel endlessly inviting. My dreams were carefully planned, though not always practical.

Still, here I am, five months into my thirties, uncertain about the future.

Yet I can’t say I didn’t try. In 2018, I spent a year in Australia teaching Indonesian, and it was everything I hoped for. I felt energized, fulfilled, and certain that I was on the right track. I even had a plan ready: return to Indonesia, continue my education for no more than two years, and then step back into the life I had dreamed of.

But life shifted in ways I didn’t expect. One decision led to another, and I found myself moving from Bandung to Jakarta to Bogor. Along the way, my once-bright spirit dimmed. The dreams that had carried me forward began to fade. I tried to bring them back, but they slipped away, and somewhere along the road, I lost the spark.

Still, I haven’t given up. Early this year, I applied for a scholarship to revive the dream I thought was gone. My first attempt failed. I didn’t cry, though the disappointment weighed heavily. The second attempt ended the same way. Now, on my third try, I’m holding on, hoping that this time will be different.

Reading through my motivation letter again, I paused at its final words:

I still vividly remember the pride I felt when my mentee spoke Indonesian for the first time during my internship. I remember the joy when nine of my Year 12 students passed the VCE speaking exam. I recall the happiness of my younger students winning an Indonesian competition, and the smiles on their faces as they gained confidence with each new word. I remember their struggle to differentiate kita and kami, and their delight when it finally clicked. I remember their amazement at learning Indonesia is more than just Bali. All of these moments were made possible through the BIPA program—not just a language program, but a bridge of connection, understanding, and culture. These memories continue to shape my commitment to it.

So perhaps the truth is this: the fire never really disappeared. It may have burned low, but it is still alive. All I need is patience and faith, that it will rise again.