Moving On: What It Means To Leave
A letter from Jul 29, 2022
Dear future me,
Happy Birthday!
Bake yourself a cake.
Hope everything is going well at school. At life. If not, figure it out.
Yes, do that.
Jan 20, 2026
I don’t have it figured out. About a thousand dollars’ worth of baking equipment sits in a storage closet in my room. Where’s all this stuff gonna go? It would be a horrible waste to throw it all away as my mom suggests. It would be too much of a hassle to sell it all off to people I know, or worse, strangers online. And I don’t want it gone. It has sentimental value, you know. I don’t think my mom realizes what she’s asking of me. This hobby that consumed my life for all my middle school years—all traces of it, gone forever.
The only middle school photos my parents have of me are ones of me baking. I was enamoured with it—hence, the $1000 of stuff. At the bookstore, I was always in the recipes and cookbooks section with all the aunties, and they would, every time, give me a skeptical look. Baking was, really, all I thought about. The first thing I did after coming home every afternoon was to make myself a microwaved brownie. The one thing I learned from baking: Eat before you judge. It’s better than you think.
When I made a cake for the first time, I devised a wonderful plan to bake my own birthday cake every year, and on my 18th, I would get to put alcohol in it. I was delighted by the prospect. And I could bake for my parents’ birthdays, my grandparents’ birthdays, my friends… but none of it ever happened.
High school came, and with it, a long list of new time-eating responsibilities. Spending a whole day just to make one thing—no one had the time for that anymore. Slowly, the utensils and machines got shelved away, as homework and studying took up a greater share of my weekends than measuring and mixing. I could feel my creations were getting more simplistic, more dull, as I shelved more and more away in the cupboards. I haven’t made anything beyond instant ramen since 9th grade.
That cupboard has long been forgotten-about, and only now, when my family’s moving out of Singapore, am I remembering my old obsession. I even wanted to be a pastry chef when I grew up. I had, with absolute certainty in my mind, that I would keep baking. It never occurred to me that, one day, I would stop. And that one day, even if I had continued the hobby, I would have to throw it all away. That my family would inevitably move out, and I’d have to move on.
I think I knew that all of this was going to end. I knew we were leaving, and I knew that I was to leave. But also I thought life would simply continue on, unchanging, just as it has for so long. I understand now, with the moving boxes in my room, that it isn’t true. I didn’t think I had to worry, and I thought I had time. The second thing I learned from baking, when I couldn’t finish making the dinner in time for my visiting relatives: there’s never enough time, is there?
A few days ago, I gathered together a handful of trash bags, and started tossing the mixers, the measuring cups, the measuring spoons, the pans, the spatulas, the bowls, the whisks—inside.
I don’t have it figured out. Where’s all this stuff gonna go? My baking equipment, that is. About a thousand dollars’ worth of it sits in a storage closet in my room. It would be a horrible waste to throw it all away. It would be too much of a hassle to sell it all off to people I know, or worse, strangers online. And I don’t want it gone. It has sentimental value, you know. I don’t think my mom realizes what she’s asking of me. This hobby that consumed my life for all my middle school years—all traces of it, gone forever.
I wanted to be a pastry chef when I grew up. Silly me. Spending a whole day just to make one thing—no one has the time for that in high school. I haven’t made anything beyond instant ramen since 9th grade. The plan was to bake my own birthday cake every year, and on my 18th, I would get to put alcohol in it. None of that happened. I thought I would keep baking, but now my family’s moving out, and I’m moving on. A few days ago, I gathered together a handful of trash bags, and began tossing the mixers, the measuring cups, the measuring spoons, the pans, the spatulas, the bowls, the whisks—inside.
I thought life would continue on, unchanging, just as it has for so long. I didn’t think I had to worry, and I thought I had time. But there’s never enough time, is there?