Ikigai

Kuala Lumpur is, quite literally, a city grown out of the jungle. I never really understood how New York came to own that title, though to be fair, I have never been there myself. I imagine New York carries its own kind of wilderness — the sharp, electric kind made from noise and movement and too many people wanting too many things at once. But Kuala Lumpur has nothing to envy. The air here feels alive in a quieter way, as if the city is still gently negotiating with the trees that were here first.

I came here from a country on the other side of the world, searching for something I could not properly name. At the time, it felt less like a decision and more like a small, persistent pull somewhere inside me. Maybe if I had not wandered into that book bazaar to escape the rain, I still would not have known how to describe it.

In the end, all it took was a sudden change in the weather.

And then, almost softly, I understood what it was I had been looking for.

Its name is simple. Rooted in the vocabulary of Japan, it carries meanings that seem to shift gently from person to person.

Ikigai.

There is no direct translation for the word itself, only small interpretations people hold close to them. The ones that stayed with me were these:

— a quiet joy in simply being alive

— recognising the value hidden inside a life

— a reason to wake up each morning, even on ordinary days

What I have come to understand is that ikigai does not need to arrive as something grand. Not a dramatic reinvention, not a life split cleanly into a before and after. Those kinds of changes often feel frightening long before they feel beautiful.

And for people like me — the kind who confuse perfection with purpose — it is important to remember that ikigai is not the same thing as obsession.

It is not about reaching a career milestone. Not about creating the most breath-taking piece of art the world has ever seen. Not about becoming the prettiest version of yourself imaginable.

It is something simpler than that.

Something that quietly nudges you forward.

Something that makes the next step feel possible.

I do not know about you, but I think many things can become an ikigai.

Sometimes it is nothing more than a good stretch in the morning, followed by your favourite drink still warm between your hands. Sometimes it is a particular song you cannot stop returning to for reasons you cannot fully explain. Or the view outside your window when the sunlight falls in that one perfect spot, turning everything briefly golden and tender.

Maybe that is the beauty of it. Ikigai does not demand greatness from us in the loud, exhausting way the world often does. It feels more like a quiet reminder that being alive can still be beautiful, even in small and passing moments. In a world where consumption feels endless and achievement is worn down to performance, ikigai becomes something softer. Almost like a whisper.

And if I may offer you any advice — one I am still learning to follow myself — it is this: do not search for your ikigai only on the other side of the world. Try to find it within your everyday pleasures instead. In the moments that seem small but somehow carry so much colour inside them. The warm ones. The gentle ones. The ones that make life feel briefly illuminated from within.

And if you do find yourself travelling far away someday, searching for something you cannot yet name, remember this too: you are not alone in it. Your ikigai comes with you quietly. Keeping you company. Waiting patiently for you to notice it, and finally let it be yours.