Author: Sheela Goh

Explosive Moments

This will self destruct in 3 seconds. 3-2-1 BOOOOOOM!!!!!! (just kidding, ish)   We’ve all been guilty of one or ten self destructive acts in our lifetimes, haven’t we? I was just talking about it the other day, in one of my conversations with Eve about processing and accepting self love.  And decided I wanted to write a list of my Top 10 Acts of Self Destruction.  To see which ranked the highest.  How it happened.  What I could possibly have done differently. Here we go.  The single most self destructive thing I’ve ever done to myself was to believe in someone else’s opinion of me. I ALLOWED MYSELF TO PUT STOCK INTO SOMEONE ELSE’S PERCEPTION OF ME I gave someone else permission to rule, manage and control my life, and the way I wanted to live.  I handed over my free will to someone else, and basically told them it was alright to let their perspective, their story, their limitations impose upon who I am. Their vision took priority over mine. I offered up …

Old Habits

So, I’m in Singapore at the moment. The sunny island of Singapore.   This is where, a long time ago, I lived, worked, got married and had a baby.  It’s where I had Eve.  Shortly after she was born, my marriage with Eve’s father deteriorated and we divorced.  I then moved to the States, to begin a new life with my husband, Pierluigi, and his two boys. It’s been 12 years since I set foot here. I have a complicated relationship with this place.  It’s a mix of loathing and appreciation (more on this in a subsequent post, and how it’s gone a long way towards creating the woman that I am today). If you’ve read my rant on Instagram, you’d understand part of the hate.  Women such as myself who are independent, free-spirited, intelligent, and articulate (in other words, not quite the traditional Asian female) are disliked, distrusted, unaccepted.  And heaven help us should we earn more than our men. For the entire decade I was there, I was made fun of (for my …

The View

I spent a long time mulling over this image. I debated on posting it and showing the world such a close view of my legs. Anyone who knows me knows how much I dislike that part of my body. For many reasons. From shape and muscular structure, to girth, fat, and how scarred they are. It began from when I was a teenager. I had body dysmorphia even then, although I didn’t know it had a name. I only knew I hated the sight of my (tree trunk) legs and that if I could help it, no one would ever EVER see them. That continued for many years until I was 26. I had a spurt of post-natal body love and participated in a beauty pageant which necessitated that I parade up and down the runway in a bikini (I know I know but it was an interesting experience). After that concluded, I retreated back into my shell. More than 1.5 decades were to pass before I, at the age of 40, felt they were …

Recharge, Reboot, Reset

A fresh start.   This will be a short one, my friends.  Yes, it does seem rather inadequate given that I’ve been silent and missing for a month.  But change is a-foot.  In my heart.  Within the family.  On the blog.  And that change has not only opened my eyes to an expanded level of awareness, it has also aided me in concluding how I am meant to continue on this writing journey. WE ALL NEED A RESET BUTTON Which is not a bad thing. Starting from scratch can be good. I’m certain many would concur that we all need to use that reset button now and again.  When time seems to pass ever. so. very. slowly.  When everything seems tried and tested, done and done.  When one begins to turn a deaf ear to the crisp rustle of turning pages.  And when the sight of lightning streaking across the sky no longer brings about a sigh of contentment and pleasure.  Well, those are my personal indicators, yours may very well be much different but …

An Unsteady Flicker

Staying inspired. Keeping the flame burning.   I was at mass last Sunday morning, for Easter (the sheer fact it’s taken me over a week to churn out this story should hint at what I’m going to be sharing today), and I somewhat tuned out when the priest began his homily.  I do that sometimes a lot.  Not a very Catholic act but certainly very human.  As he was speaking, I asked myself how someone like Father Troy could remain so passionate and enthusiastic about being a priest.  About his faith.  About saying mass. I mean, at the end of the day, priesthood is still a job.  And with any and every profession, we all fall into a slump every now and again.  Into mental fatigue.  We get jaded and disinterested.  And that fire under our asses goes out. And then all of a sudden, his words pierced through my reverie, “You fall in love with Christ all over again each and every single day.  That’s how you keep things exciting.  And interesting.” NO, THIS …

The Fab 40s Are Princesses For A Day

Of fairytales and princes. Of happily ever afters (or not).   I remember my very first cinematic encounter with an official Disney princess.  Her name was Snow White and the year was 1980.  Throughout the music (who could forget that high pitched voice) and all that animation, one thing stuck in my head.  That I was certainly not going to lay around like a helpless damsel in distress, waiting for my prince to come and set me free.  That I’d rather don my own suit of armour, and rescue myself. I CAN SLAY MY OWN DRAGONS, YO As you’d probably surmise, I have no love for Snow White.  In face, her shrill vocal chords set me on edge and I’m instantly overcome by an animalistic urge to pummel.  Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty too are on my hit list of never-evers. God help me should the day come that I can no longer fight my own battles. Shudder.  Just shoot me and put me out of my misery when that moment arrives. Then came Ariel in …

A Different Perspective

Same story, same tale. Different approach, different results.   After last week’s incident (read: post) about an oh so blatantly discriminating act I was “blessed” to experience first hand, I made my way to the Emuleos show.  Now, a large part of my love for fashion stems from discovering new talent.  Or being introduced to an upcoming designer with a fresh perspective on silhouettes.  Not that my words wield the might that is Susie Bubble, hardly, but in that it fascinates me to no end when something someone authentically different lands on my lap, and my jaded eyes light up at the sight of originality (which, despite how often we recite the word “cyclical” in conversations pertaining to fashion, is very much sought after). Utility Jacket (option, option) | Unicorn Sweater (option, option) | Crop Flared Jeans (option, option, option) | Patchwork Boots (option, option) | Sunnies (option) | Lipstick (Rose)  FASHION MAY BE CYCLICAL BUT ORIGINALITY IS PERPETUALLY TRENDY I arrived at Gary’s Loft and took the lift upstairs without much in the way …

All Should Be Fair In Style & Fashion

But it ain’t so, baby girl. And that’s the sad truth about it.   Whenever I bring up Fashion Week, I’m typically met with blank stares (all of my family and 90% of my friends aren’t “in the industry”).  On occasion, these looks are replaced with comments along the lines of, “Oh wow, how exciting!!” or “Sounds so fun, can I come too?” or “You have the most glamorous life!!“.  Whatever their responses, it’s always the glossy parts that surface.  The bright, fun, glossy part.  Rarely, if ever, does the not so pleasant, not so pretty aspects see the light of day. That’s what my post is about today. And yes, this is what I wore to the first two shows of my very first day at NYFW 2017.  A tried and trusted bomber jacket from the defunct Dereon line, complete with faux fur collar.  A polka dot button down peeking out discreetly from a strapless, bustier dress concocted from vintage fabrics, and festooned with antique, estate finds.  Signature oversized sunnies.  All of which have …

An Eye Opener

Truth on the runways. (Even more) truth on the streets.   Ah, New York Fashion Week.  The special time that comes around only twice a year, where the finest and most extravagant (and sometimes the most ridiculous) creations are sent down the runway – all to the watchful eyes of critics, buyers, stylists and hoards of eager fashionistas. This season, however, it was less about the outlandish, and more about the political.  No, I stand corrected.  It was completely about making a statement. SARTORIALLY & POLITICALLY SPEAKING In as much as (some) of the designs that walked down the runway took my breath away, it was how designers and models and influencers stood united in sending a message about social and political justice (or perhaps a sad lack thereof) that really stood out for me. Because let’s face it, people. Fashion can be one mother of a catty world. Let’s not attempt to sugarcoat things, shall we?  Catty and bitchy and, more often than not, blatantly cruel and manipulative.  And it is precisely because of …

The Fab 40s Create Pop Art

Drawn from popular culture. Celebrating mundane, everyday things.   Pop Art, that is, lauding commonplace objects and people, seeking to elevate these seemingly nondescript things to the level of fine art.  Personally, I wouldn’t put “pop” and “fine” within the same sentence should it pertain to the various categories of art but I’d be the last person to deny how strong an impact the pop art movement has had on fashion and style. A G R E E D ? Campbell’s Soup Cans. Disney’s mighty Mickey Mouse. MISS NORMA JEAN BAKER All these, be they hand-painted or screen-printed, are universally recognisable as juggernauts of the pop art culture.  And what’s particularly interesting to note is that whilst abstract expressionists favoured visually depicting their tormented souls upon canvas, pop artists searched for traces of that very same trauma in the commercial world of advertising, cartoons, and popular imagery at large. To be perfectly honest, I found this challenge quite, well, challenging (gah, Sam, I tossed and turned for quite a few nights, that I did). Aside …