The air is colder than usual for Bali.
My feet strike the pavement in a steady, solitary rhythm. The streets are empty, surrendered to the pre-dawn quiet. There is only the sound of my breathing and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the ocean.
I am running, but for the first time in months, I am not running from something.
For weeks, I have been chained to a screen, fighting a battle in a language I do not speak. I, a chef, a music lover, a woman from faraway, decided to build a digital home. I, a person who is blind to code, tried to become an architect. The frustration was a physical weight. Every line of broken script, every failed function, was a wall I couldn't seem to climb.
But this morning, it is done. The final file was uploaded. The last bug was crushed.
A feeling floods my chest, a word that feels sacred in this part of the world: Merdeka. Liberation.
It’s a private, quiet freedom. The wind whips at my face, cold and sharp, but it feels cleansing. The sun, just a sliver of molten gold on the horizon, begins to peek, casting a weak warmth that feels like a reward. A thin smile traces my lips. I did it. I did it.
But the smile is fragile. It doesn't reach my eyes.
How can you celebrate your own small liberation when so much of the world is in chains?
My heart remains heavy, tethered to the images of unimaginable cruelty unfolding in another corner of the globe. My victory—a functional website—feels so small, so painfully insignificant against the backdrop of real, tangible suffering. My freedom is a digital luxury; theirs is a desperate, physical plea. My heart cries for them, a silent ache that the Balinese sunrise cannot erase.
The sun climbs higher. The air is still cold, but the light is growing stronger.
This small victory isn't the answer to the world's pain. I know that. But as I run, I understand. This fight, my small, technical, frustrating fight, was about creation.
In a world so eager to destroy, perhaps the only sane response—the only act of defiance we have left—is to build. To create, to write, to code, to cook, to sing. Even with a heart that is breaking.
I pick up my pace. The run isn't over, and neither is the fight.
Molto bello 👍