If this is what success looks like, then I don’t want it.

When someone asks me what’s the best thing about running my own business, my answer changes every time.

Most recently, the answer has been

I get to do things my way, and I have the freedom to say no to the things I don’t want to do.

A few hours back, my account manager from one of the fairs we now regularly participate in, updated me about the competition we should be expecting in the upcoming fairs. Simply because bralettes are now a thing in the world of mummies and that other brands are beginning to adopt bralettes in their repertoire of products.

It’s nothing new. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, and the easiest way to get in with the times is simply through mimicking. That’s what we used to do. And that’s what most businesses still do today. Mimick and iterate.

But the one thing I cannot stand is when brands sound the drums and pull out the banners to claim that they are on the side of female empowerment and helping women feel comfortable in their own skin — yet at the same time, sell creams, shapewear and slimming products, targeted at helping mummies get back into their pre-pregnancy body in the least amount of time.

It’s bullshit, clear as day. And it reeks of a company trying to reap the benefits of being body positive, yet at the same time, exploiting the emotional and mental weakness of a postpartum mother.

But you know what’s worse? The fact that we as consumers are suckers for it.

We want to see brands and businesses standing on the side of body positivity and size inclusivity. We want it so badly, that we take it in all forms, whether it’s a passing tweet about “standing alongside women everywhere” or a picture of a model that isn’t size zero with the caption “All bodies are beautiful”.

We smile, double-tap to like, maybe even repost it on our feeds. Then go back to buying all the products that are sized XS only, buy the slimming creams and detox diets that the same body-loving brand is trying to sell you.

It’s not a clear line. It’s not black and white. And who is to say helping you become a slimmer, fitter, pre-pregnancy sized you isn’t the route to helping promote body positivity? (not to me, but who knows right?)

I’m getting a little off tangent here. But recently, success has become a concept that I’m increasingly foreign to. The idea of success in the eyes of so many has become so warped and mutated, that it’s clear that they are willing to jump through the hoops of immorality and cross the rivers of grey areas to reach.

Just a couple of weeks back, I read a post about how an ex-colleague, who went to a bank to make some withdrawals and almost got sweet-talked into signing up for a life insurance plan cleverly disguised as an investment plan with guaranteed interest and zero risk. He’d almost signed on the dotted line, only to look at the fine print and realise that the interest was definitely not guaranteed and his money was definitely not at zero risk.

And that’s just one scenario.

Question is, how many guarantees are you willing to make, and how many silken half-truths are you willing to spin in order to close a deal? How many underhanded means are you willing to take just to get that little bit closer to your definition of success?

It’s difficult. When in our day and age, success is an indicator of how capable, smart, clever and worthy you are. That sometimes we are blinded by the need to be validated by these little words, we are willing to do anything it takes so we don’t end up in the pool of people who “work so hard their whole lives and end up right at the same place they began”.

The thought scares me. Being raised in a family where my parents constantly reiterated the need for hard work in order to achieve success, albeit applied only academically. It was a promise that there’s no dumb person, only lazy ones. That if you’re willing to clench your teeth, double down in hard work, success will find you, even if you weren’t reaching for it in the first place.

But the more years you add to your age, the more you realise that hard work is defined differently in this playing field we call life. That sometimes, simply working hard isn’t going to work for you. You can climb the stairs over and over and still feel like everything you’ve been promised is so far out of reach.

If that’s the case, then maybe you shouldn’t be reaching for it in the first place. The definition of success and the associated brilliance it comes with is a societal expectation. It should not define you as a person and it should not make you feel less, just because you’ve tried so hard and still don’t have it.

Most days now, I yearn for a day of hard work and an honest payout. I no longer look for shortcuts in life that will get me to the greatest amount of reward with minimal amounts of effort. The tradeoffs just aren’t worth it.

Sometimes when my mum asks me how’s business and I want to tell her, it could be better. I also want to tell her, it should be better. But it cannot be, because I’m the one running it. And there are things I refuse to do, words I refuse to say and lies I refuse to spin in order for it to be better.

I am more than my work. I am more than what I do. And I refuse to change the way I am just because it makes things easier.

Because if that’s the way success is coming to me, I’d rather not have it anyway.


Photo 22-2-14 11 22 14 pmI’m not a stranger to the greying streets of Shanghai. Over the past ten years, I’ve learnt to familiarise myself with it’s hastily bricked roads and massive traffic junctions, serving as a mobile and very vocal baggage to my father’s already large entourage. So today when I found some place new to discover in this city I felt I already knew, it was pretty magical.

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1933 老场坊 is an old slaughter house set awkwardly on the edge of Shanghai’s city centre. Despite the European design, it’s painted an artless shade of cream and grey that’s  ready to merge into the monotonous city background. But colour aside, the slaughterhouse does have a pretty intriguing architectural setup that’ll mount scenes of cattle trotting up ramps and to their imminent deaths firmly into the forefront of your brains.

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Funny enough, the building now occupies itself with the likes of fancy cafés, pretentious theatres and event agencies that draws in a crowd full of high spirits and an obvious lack of superstition. Weddings and birthday celebrations are common and despite the wintry air and eerie chill, they seem hopeful, perhaps even joyous, enveloped by a positive aura that I cannot seem to radiate.

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Most of the building feels empty even though a dozen shops are holed into it’s walls, making one feel as though the attempts at trying to mask the old stench of the slaughterhouse only serves to excavate its history and elucidate.