Learning to Care, Before We Have To

The following reflection builds on an earlier piece about finding my way back to healthcare; not by changing careers, but by integrating care into how I live.

Malaysia, an ageing nation.

Malaysia is changing quietly, steadily, and in ways that will touch almost every family. We are now considered an ageing nation, and alongside that shift comes a reality many of us are only beginning to confront: caregiving is no longer optional, distant, or theoretical.

After reflecting on my own relationship with healthcare and why I've been drawn back to it, this post moves from reflection to action, and why I chose to start learning how to care, before circumstances force us to.

Conversations around me.

Lately, when I speak to friends with ageing parents, the same sentence keeps appearing in different forms: "It's not easy to find a caretaker who can take care of my parents well."

Good and trusted caretakers and home nurses who can come to the house are not only difficult to find; they can be costly in the long run. Many families are navigating dementia, Parkinson's, mobility loss, post-stroke recovery, or the slow erosion of independence that comes with age. Almost everyone I know has some version of this story unfolding in their home.

It is not only my friends. Many of my in-laws' peers are living with some form of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, relapses, and chronic conditions - whether being actively treated or quietly endured.

A quiet realisation.

And slowly, it becomes impossible to ignore the truth:

My in-laws are ageing.

One day, my husband will age too.

And so will I.

This awareness has shifted something in me.

I am not a doctor, and at this stage of life, I don't need to be. What I do need is the ability to respond calmly, competently, and compassionately; someone who does not freeze when an elderly parent falls, forgets, weakens, or needs help with the most basic human tasks.

I want at least one person in the household who understands ageing, who can respond with calm, knowledge, and compassion.

Taking action.

That desire led me to register for the "Chaperon & Companionship Course: The First Step in Caregiving" by Care Concierge Malaysia. It's a practical programme that introduces essential skills such as basic health assessment, patient communication, observation, mobility support, and personal care.

Around the same time, I was accepted into a formal programme on Ageing & Geriatric Rehabilitation. Although I had to decline the intake due to timing, the decision to return in the later part of the year felt intentional rather than disappointing. Some learning needs space. Some knowledge deserves readiness. This is one of them.

Getting myself ready.

2026 will be a year of grounding - finishing my Master of Marketing, deepening my work, and continuing to learn through hands-on caregiving exposure.

By 2027, I shall be ready to step into structured geriatric training with clarity, intention, and emotional maturity. Not because I am certain this will become my full-time path, but because I believe some knowledge is too important to postpone.

Caregiving, to me, is not a career move or a credential chase. It is a form of readiness for my family and for the realities that will arrive whether we plan for them or not.

In a society that is growing older, choosing to learn how to care is not dramatic. It is practical, humane, and something I would rather do early, calmly, and with intention before we have to.

Finding My Way Back to Healthcare

I have always wanted to be a doctor.

Some of you might know that I have always wanted to be a medical doctor. Not casually. Not as a childhood phase.

It was a quiet, persistent knowing that followed me into adulthood, you know, the pull towards medicine, care, understanding the human body, and being present in moments that matter most.

Life, of course, took me elsewhere. That particular path is no longer feasible, and I have made my peace with that, or so I thought.

Over the years...

I built a meaningful career in marketing, eventually finding myself working closely within healthcare organisations. For a long time, that felt like enough. I was still in the industry I loved. Still learning. Still close to care, even if not at the bedside.

Then, gradually, some of those containers disappeared.

Roles changed. Chapters ended. A venture I believed in came to an abrupt close.

And suddenly, I realised something that unsettled me more than I expected. I no longer felt inside the healthcare world. I was adjacent to it, serving it, speaking about it, but no longer held by it.

Grieving is necessary.

That realisation triggered a quiet grief. Not because I wanted to change careers. Not because I was unhappy with what I do. But because I had lost proximity to something that once felt like home.

Healthcare, for me, has never been about titles or prestige. It has always been about care, dignity, vulnerability, and being useful when things are fragile.

Somewhere along the way, I began to miss that deeply human dimension, the kind that cannot be fully accessed through strategy decks or analytics dashboards.

Looking for my way back in.

I started looking for ways back in. Not dramatic ones. Not radical pivots. But honest, age-appropriate, sustainable ones.

And so, I enrolled in a one-day caregiving-related course; it's practical, grounded, human.

I will blog about this after completing it.

I was also accepted into a professional certificate programme focused on ageing and rehabilitation. Even though I had to decline the intake due to timing, the decision to return in a later part of the year felt right; it's unrushed, intentional.

I know I am not trying to become a doctor anymore.

But I am also not willing to let that part of me disappear.

My next blog post (Learning to Care, Before We Have To) explores why I focus on ageing care.

When growth requires intentional integration.

What I am doing now is something quieter. It's called integrating.

Integrating who I have become with who I once wanted to be. Integrating knowledge with care. Integrating work with life, family, ageing, and the realities that are already knocking at our doors.

I don't know yet what this will lead to. And for once, I'm okay with not knowing.

Some learning is not about outcomes. It's about belonging and returning, differently.

And maybe this is what growing older with intention looks like: not chasing old dreams, but finding new ways to honour them.

Choosing Closure Without Agreement

This reflection is about a personal season of growth and discernment. It is not written in reference to any individual relationship or organisation.

After writing my previous post, I was somewhat shocked that the story wasn't quite over yet.

Because apparently there was still one more decision to make to formally close the door even though the ending still didn't feel quite fair.

And seriously, that was harder than I expected.

I said I wanted peace of mind, but honestly, I didn't want to lie to myself. I didn't want to pretend that what happened was okay, or that it didn't matter. Because it did and still does.

For a while, I thought closure meant I had to agree with the outcome. That I had to make sense of it, or accept it fully, before moving on. But I'm learning that this isn't true.

Closure Doesn't Require Agreement

I arrive at a new level of comprehension that closure doesn't require agreement.

Signing off on an ending doesn't mean I approve of how things were handled. It doesn't mean I've forgotten the effort, the care, or the sacrifices that went into that chapter. It simply means I no longer want to stay connected to something that no longer aligns with who I am.

I'm not trying to erase the experience. I'm choosing not to stay stuck in it. There's a stark difference.

Stepping Away Graciously

Holding on to the feeling of injustice was costing me more than letting go. Not just in time or energy, but in peace of mind.

So in the end, I chose to agree to step away without needing everything to feel resolved.

Some chapters don't end with fairness or closure in the way we hope for. They end when we decide that staying no longer serves us.

No bitterness, just self-respect.

Let me carry the lesson forward and leave the weight behind.

And that feels like the right place to end this chapter.

Here's to the Year of the Fiery Horse.

No more looking back.

Let's gallop forward! Lighter, braver, and ready for success.

When a Chapter Ends Without Apology

This reflection is about a personal season of growth and discernment. It is not written in reference to any individual relationship or organisation.

Some endings don't come with shouting or drama.

They come with silence, paperwork, and a sudden shift in the story you thought you were building.

Just very recently, I walked away from something I had invested deeply in, not just with time and work, but with belief.

I stayed longer than my instincts suggested I should. I saw the red flags. I acknowledged them. But I chose to hope, to commit, and to honour the version of the future I thought we were building together.

And when it had to come to an end, it felt like an inconvenient ultimatum; like I was being discarded because there was no other choice. That part hurt more than I expected.

But healing has a way of softening the narrative.

What I now see is this: I didn't ignore my instincts. I simply allowed my values to lead.

I stayed because I believe in loyalty. In building things with care. In not abandoning people or projects the moment things become complicated.

That is not foolishness. That is character.

The ending forced me to face this difficult truth: sometimes, people are not building the same kind of thing you are. Some are creating a future. Others are protecting an income. And when those two visions collide, something has to give.

This time, it was the story I thought I belonged to.

I recently came across a line from Ejae that stayed with me.

Rejection is redirection.

At first, it sounded too philosophical. But the more I sit with it, the more it feels true. Not every closed door is a loss. Some are quiet course corrections, i.e., life intervening before your integrity is slowly worn down by compromises you were never meant to make.

I didn't lose a chapter. I was released from a version of the future that could no longer hold who I am becoming.

And I'm choosing to carry that lesson forward, not with bitterness, but with clarity, self-respect, and a deeper trust in my own voice.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you do isn't staying. It's knowing when to leave without apology.