I struggled with imposter syndrome. Everyone around me felt so accomplished, so I tried to overcompensate in my modules at Tembusu, always pushing myself to come up with a unique perspective, just to prove that I, too, was capable of contributing something meaningful. Deep down, I was afraid that if I didn\u2019t stand out, I\u2019d be left behind in the dust. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
That perspective shifted during Tembusu Takes A Break (TTAB) in semester 1. I signed up for an acoustic guitar workshop held in the Abbey, where I learned how to press down chords and strum simple patterns. I was clumsy with my fingers, and was slow to the rhythm, but no one laughed. We simply continued until the motions felt a little less foreign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After the session ended, the seniors sent me the strumming pattern so that I could keep practicing. This simple gesture changed how I viewed living in Tembusu. It wasn\u2019t about matching my peers or proving my worth. It was about learning, exploring, growing, and most of all, receiving the kind of encouragement that makes you want to keep going. It\u2019s indescribable. Yet you feel it all the time, in friends offering you snacks without you asking, or others showing up to your events and interest groups even though they have no obligation to. Or even in the slowing of a friend\u2019s pace to match yours. It\u2019s so subtle and easy to overlook, but once you start to notice it, it\u2019s everywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n These thoughtful, small acts of care became some of the most beautiful things that I\u2019ve grown to cherish. And slowly, without even realising it, I found myself giving back in the same way. Not to repay a debt, but because I had been shown what it meant to be supported. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 2<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n One event that I can still vividly recall is the RC Halloween Scare Actor Training, which is one of my best memories of Tembusu. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Our trainer was a senior who could command a room with just his presence. Splitting us into pairs, he kicked things off with something simple, or so it seemed. The task? Make grotesque facial expressions at each other for a full minute. I remember trying to raise an eyebrow while puffing my cheeks and crossing my eyes, hoping to scare my partner. It felt silly and embarrassing, but by the end, we were all laughing so hard our laughter could have broken down walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then came the emotional drills. Our trainer would call out an emotion and then shout a number from 1 to 7. Level 1 meant a subtle, almost invisible display of the emotion, while Level 7 meant an over-the-top, full-bodied expression. The room transformed into chaos. When he yelled \u201cAnger, Level 5!\u201d, we growled and stomped, knocking each other on the shoulders as if we felt gravely disrespected. But the moment he shouted \u201cFear, Level 7!\u201d, everything changed. Some of us clutched our faces, others started shaking and crying out in terror. The air turned cold with collective panic. Somehow, in that wild moment, I felt alive – connected through shared adrenaline and ridiculousness. Not judged, not graded, just free, present and grounded to this place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s strange, isn\u2019t it? Sometimes the moments you remember most are the unusual ones. It could just be a room full of people pretending to be scared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 3<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The seminar rooms. Small, enclosed and sometimes a little suffocating, but somehow so alive. It wasn\u2019t just about studying, it was about what the room had seen us become. <\/p>\n\n\n\n To me, the seminar room represented possibility. Even though it was just a plain room with whiteboards, movable furniture and glaring lights, it was where I dared to try things out. Where I could be messy and imaginative. I\u2019d think back to the times we were asked to solve problems or build something from scratch, and we\u2019d jump in with the strangest ideas just to see if they\u2019d work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I remember building a tower out of cardboard with classmates, our minds full of half-formed ideas to keep our structure from collapsing. I remember building a mini city out of Lego, imagining a fifth, a sixth, a seventh tower of the Marina Bay Sands, eventually looping into one complete circle. I remember pitching more nonsensical ideas – how about a kite mounted with solar panels? Or having roller coasters as mass transport within the city? It didn’t matter if it made any sense. What mattered was the freedom to imagine. And slowly, over time, the seminar room became a place where I started to feel comfortable sharing ideas, even the strangest ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then one day, I walked past and peeked in. The markers were gone. The whiteboards were cleaned. The chairs were arranged in an orderly fashion. And just like that, the room that had once been buzzing with ideas and laughter stood still in complete silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 4<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n It looked empty!<\/p>\n\n\n\n And that\u2019s when it hit me – the fear of an ending.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was a gradual yet sudden change as we approached the latter half of the semester. The same hallways that once echoed with greetings and laughter now felt a little quieter. The lounges stayed empty for just a little longer. Everyone hid in their rooms, churning out their last assignments. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Eventually, shoes started disappearing. It\u2019s such a small detail, but if you\u2019ve lived here long enough, maybe you\u2019d understand. The pairs of personalised Crocs were a sign of life, a sign that someone was home. And slowly, those rows thinned. You\u2019d walk past and realise that a door that once burst open now stayed shut. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I remember the first time it felt so real. I was walking from my room to the lounge and realised I hadn\u2019t bumped into anyone. The dining hall became still, I hadn\u2019t been waving to anyone. It\u2019s the kind of stillness that isn\u2019t peaceful, just \u2026 hollow. I sat in the lounge and waited. No one came.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s when I realised \u2026 this wasn\u2019t how I wanted it to end. Not with fading noise and empty lounges. Not with unspoken goodbyes.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n But here\u2019s the thing. The room I\u2019m sitting in right now – luggage packed and door almost closed – doesn\u2019t have to be the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There\u2019s still time to be present, to hold on, gently, to what\u2019s still unfolding. After all, there\u2019s meaning in the smallest rituals here at Tembusu – the cheerful greetings of the dining hall aunties and the whispered \u201call the best\u201d before your exams. Even the slow walks back from dinner with conversations that stretch longer than the path itself! As routines fade and rooms empty out, the soul of this place lingers – not in its walls, but in moments of care we leave behind. They aren\u2019t grand, but that doesn\u2019t mean they don’t deserve to be collected. They are just as genuine, precious and real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One day, bags will be packed for the final time. One day, we will walk through these hallways, knowing it is for the last. But maybe, just maybe, if these days are lived with intention, that final walk won\u2019t feel so heavy. Maybe the door will close not with sorrow, but with a quiet smile. Not because it\u2019s over, but because it was real. Because it mattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The journal is closed now, its ending properly decided. Its pages are a little more worn now, its words a little more alive. The luggage waits by the door, still zipped, but my heart feels, somehow, just a little lighter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/localhost:10005\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-05-05-18.37.12.jpg\")
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