Feet dragging from the elevator, I punch in the pin to my front door, ready to escape the heat and humidity of my three-minute walk from the Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) station. The melody dings as I push open the door and I am embraced by the cool air-conditioning of my apartment. I slump my work bag onto “the chair” and I sit on the couch in front of the TV, eyes barely keeping open. So this is what rock bottom looks like. I don’t need to step into the kitchen to see the dishes left in the sink, laundry piling up on the couch, and floors unswept, dust sticking to my bare feet as I entered what is supposed to be my sanctuary.
How did I get here?
I just graduated, ending my four years of a bachelor’s degree in America. With no job to hold me down, I found myself set adrift. Letting the currents of life pull me under as I clawed at the bubbles my breath left behind as I screamed, where are you taking me! In time, the waves thrashed and spit me out onto the rocky terrains of a nine-to-six in Singapore. And just like that, six months had passed by…
Six months since I dragged my trusty luggage and boxes to a country I never planned to live in. Six months into a job I wasn’t passionate about, hoping to make a life for myself. Six months of endless tears and screaming into the void. Six months of feeling alone despite being crowded into the MRT, pushed against a sea of people having the same blank expressions as I did. Just a school of fish facing the current head-on… and me, towards rock bottom.
Just breathe, I tell myself.
*****
I sit on the edge of the boat, my oxygen tank resting on the outside of the hull. My mask sits tightly over my nose and forehead, almost to the point of giving me a headache. But I can’t afford my mask to come loose 30 meters underwater.
“Clear!” the crew shouts. I look behind me, the navy brooding sea tempts me with her boundless depths. Holding my regulator and mask in place, I let the weight of my oxygen tank take me under—backwards and head first into the deep blue ocean.
SPLASH! The cool turquoise of the sea embraces me with her hug. Bubbles and white foam dance around my vision, and for a second, the coral and sandy bottom is my sky and the rippling blue of the ocean my surface, the ground I walk on.
In just seconds, the world spins as my inflated Buoyancy Compensating Device (BCD) orients me right side up. I peer down at the distant world beneath the waves. At noon, the sun’s harsh streaks of light pierces its way through the depths of the ocean, leaving spotlights that the fish dance and swim around. Their silver scales catch the glint of the sun like a myriad of tiny disco balls finding their way in the depths of the sea.
Tiny stings on my bare hands literally shock me back to the present. Translucent jellyfish swim around us and my dive buddy is eager to descend before even more red marks paint our bodies. I signal “ok” and we descend into the blue.
I remember the first time I marvelled at the sea: somewhere in Australia with my cousin. We were five, six, maybe, standing on a sandy runway, guarded on both sides by the vast ocean; alone. Our little fingers grasped at seashells, trying to build ourselves a fortress out of sand. The pitter-patter of our feet as we imagined ourselves princesses, footprints trailing the manicured shore. But the waves came, and smiles turned to horror as the sea claimed our shovels and buckets. Our little chubby hands grabbed at what we could, but the pink, yellow, and green plastic toys bobbed in and out of sight among the waves. Then, like in a fairy tale, the sea came back, and so did our toys. The ocean takes away, but it gives back.
Just breathe.
*****
I was excited at first. Yes, moving to Singapore was never a part of the agenda, but life is full of adventures, right? I’m young. I just graduated. The sky’s the limit and the world is my oyster.
But the move was rough. My heart filled with anxiety and dread at the thought of saying goodbye to my family at the airport and boarding the plane to who-knows-what. It was just a one-hour flight from home, but it felt like I was leaving behind all my comforts—like a band-aid being ripped off my skin. All of a sudden, at 22, I had to start all over. I had no friends. No history, and not even a desire to be here. My heart ached to be home with my family, to be anywhere but here.
Here, where it’s hot and humid and stuffy. Here, where they didn’t understand my accent, my thoughts—me. Here, where my values fall short of the hustle culture. Here, stuck in a concrete jungle where even the beaches are man-made.
Nature has always been my escape—a walk by the river or reading at the harbour—here, there is no escaping the social constructs of life.
Water dominated my days in Singapore. Sweat beaded on my forehead the minute I’d step out of my apartment. At close to 40oC weather and 80% humidity, the city was like a pressure cooker just waiting to explode. Running errands and doing my groceries felt more like a workout than a daily routine. I dreaded going out, but I didn’t want to stay in, alone with my self-loathing thoughts.
My apartment—my supposed fortress—air-conditioned and generally comfortable, was anything but. Like a clownfish finding protection in sea anemone, I thought my home was supposed to shelter me from the stressors of the outside world. Instead, it was inside the cool four walls of my apartment that my worst anxieties came alive. Without the constant chatter of phone calls and Singlish gossip, the lies and whispers of my own thoughts claimed my mind. My own home stung, and indeed, I felt like a clown as I sought for a symbiotic relationship of protection and nutrition, yet none found me.
I drowned in an ocean of my own despair, choking in anxiety, gasping for air and relief. Any chance to get away, I hungrily ran after—into books, trendy cafes, and the gym. My only solace was in movement: muaythai, boxing, weight lifting. But even those were taken from me as my energy levels crashed and I sunk deeper into stillness, and depression.
I’m cracking, breaking. Every part of me I thought I knew, stripped away until I was left with nothing.
So one day, I stopped trying. I stopped feeling, and I let myself sink. I sank into the mould that started taking over my dishes and clothes, believing that in time, I would succumb to it too…
Just breathe. In and out, in and out.
*****
I exhale and slowly deflate my BCD. Sinking. Drowning. Entering depths of higher pressure than what we’re used to at sea level. I keep my eyes fixed on the bright coral below, disregarding the dark blue that ominously surrounds us. Squeezing my nose with my thumb and forefinger, I blow gently to equalize as colourful fish swim out of our way and the coral slope reveals itself.
Red sea fans, giant brain coral, and acropora corals loom into view as we descend deeper, reaching 20 meters under the sea. Like a mountain, a wall of coral emerges right in front of our eyes, different species of the hard and soft structures jutting out here and there. We are at Pulau Pramuka, one of the islands at Indonesia’s Kepulauan Seribu (Thousand Islands), diving on its Eastern side—Timur Pramuka. The seemingly rough and jagged surface of coral, is in fact, a fragile ecosystem. And yet it thrives, under the immense pressure underwater. They are treasures hidden right beneath our feet when we walked on the sandy beaches above just this morning.
Kicking our bright yellow fins through the sea, we swim, keeping the coral on our left. Fish zoom by, most undeterred by us odd creatures carrying tanks on our backs and leaving a stream of bubbles as we go. Others, like the crazy rainbow fish, come right at us, sometimes even taking a nib at our wetsuits and bare hands. I laugh, as best as I can without choking on seawater, as my dive buddy tries to swat them away like flies.
We cruise along, floating in mid-ocean as the current slowly takes us on a private view of her collection of flora and fauna. With our fins behind us, streamlined for peak buoyancy, we simply hover as we watch a hawksbill turtle swim gracefully across our view.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Without any verbal form of communication, our friend taps his pointer stick against his oxygen tank and motions us to come over. His pointer points at seemingly nothing at first, but then, the colours materialize and I saw it: a nudibranch. They are like small slugs of the sea, no bigger than 10cm. But as cute as they are, their bright neon colours scream “I’m poisonous.”
Underneath tons of water, there is serenity and life at its simplest and most complex. The nudibranch itself, though sometimes living no more than a month, have developed unique characteristics that help them live, move, and breathe. The two main types of nudibranchs can be characterized by their breathing apparatus: the aeolid nudibranch has soft spikes covering its body that help it absorb oxygen, and the dorid nudibranch has a plume of gills around its anus.
The nudibranchs’ rhinophores, two outward-facing nostrils that pick up scents in the water, allow them to navigate the coral reefs to find food. With over 3000 different species of nudibranch, the vast ocean cultivates an overwhelming variety and diversity. Small but mighty, nudibranchs are heavily sought out by macro-loving divers worldwide.
The tides come and go, and I am at the mercy of the ocean’s currents and how much air my tank holds. Hard pressed, but not crushed. Under pressure, but thriving. Surrounded by an ecosystem no human was made to ever live in, but I was happy. I’m no sea turtle or nudibranch, swimming my way through the leagues of ocean before me. And much like my reality above water, I was sinking, pushed by the currents, yet I couldn’t have felt more alive.
I bite down on my regulator, my literal lifeline, but I feel as if the water itself, the thing that could kill me down here, is the energy that gives me life. The ocean has always been my sanctuary, my safe space. No longer do I build castles out of sand hoping it would protect me. Now, I run to the force that can destroy them: the sea, fluid and powerful. Often, I’d come to its edge on a bad day, sit and stare at the horizon. Listening to her soothing waves. And now, she lets me lean into her, exploring the depths of her beauty. She welcomes me and holds nothing back, and I would stay forever if I could.
The Darth Vader-like sound of my breathing reminds me I am all but human. With each inhale, my regulator fills my lungs with cold, crisp air. I wonder what the underwater equivalent of a “breath of fresh air” feels like, smells like… I lose myself in the chorus of pops and clicks as clownfish, damselfish and even lionfish communicate and feast in the reef. I am weighed down with almost eight extra kilograms, yet I am weightless, drifting in a world I would leave everything behind for.
Just breathe.
Finally, underwater, I am breathing again.
My buddy signals “Ok?” I signal back “Ok.” And for the first time in six months, I actually mean it.
We hit the bottom. Or at least, the maximum depth on a sandy slope of how far we could go with our Advanced Open Water certification: 30 meters. I completely deflate my BCD, allowing my knees to touch and dig into the soft sand. We are so far from help up above, but I know we’re safe.
The sun’s rays pierce through the water, but not enough, so that colours are dimmer here. The pops of communicating fish and jellyfish stings are muted above us. It’s peaceful; the sandy bottom gives no shelter for the vulnerable. There are no fish darting in and out of their coral homes, no sea fans trying to grab you with their tantalizing nets. It’s just me and the never-ending blue.
The silence and lack of movement is alien to me after months of living in a concrete jungle where everyone always has somewhere to be, and the aunties and uncles tut and glare at you for taking too long to order at the food centre. But here, in the silence, at the face of the unknown, the whispers in my mind finally quieted; anxiety and hopelessness stilled.
Kneeling. Sunk. At rock bottom. Ironically, a physical representation of how I’ve felt for the past six months. But I have my oxygen tank, my mask, my regulator. I see clearly. I breathe. And I feel it all. Every sting, every sunburn, every movement of my fins and breath that allows me to control my buoyancy.
I’m at rock bottom. But I’m alive.
Just breathe.
*****
In the rare moments that Singapore brings sunshine and a cool breeze, I’d look up from my kindle, with either a matcha latte or brunch cocktail in hand, and think this moment—right now—isn’t so bad.
Even just for a moment, I fully embrace this corporate life. Donning my best outfit, without a care in the world that I’m a woman in my early 20s dining alone in a trendy café.
And just for that moment, I think life is okay. And I thank God that I’m still breathing.
*****
I look up, slowly kicking to the surface, guided by the beacon of the tropical sun. The calm waves above distort the blue sky and clouds beyond, like looking at a scene through a curtain of heat waves.
In a matter of seconds, we break the surface. My ears, having gotten used to the muffled sounds of the sea, explode with roaring motor boats and gushing of the wind.
I peel my mask off my forehead, spit out my regulator, and breathe in the salty air through my nose. BCD fully inflated, I lean back and let the waves take me as the sun greets me with her shining face. I smile back.
It’s going to be okay. I’m okay.
We float, waiting for our boat. I put my mask back on, clench the regulator with my teeth and start kicking my fins. I can’t see the reef and the sandy bottom anymore from up here; stuck at the horizon between water and sky. I swim in circles, flirting with the idea of going back down, wanting to be embraced by the ocean again. But my submersible pressure gauge reads zero: I’ve run out of air.
This is our sixth dive in two days. My body is exhausted, but my spirit feels invigorated, lighter, like I left something at the bottom of the sea. Something that’s been weighing me down for too long these last six months.
As our boat approaches, my buddy flashes me a smile and says in his barely there British accent, “Let’s celebrate with two portions of IndoMie.” I laugh because he knows it’s been years since I’ve eaten the iconic Indonesian instant noodles—and I don’t intend to start again now. But I laugh and I smile, and it’s the most genuine warmth I’ve felt in the last few months.
