Settled-ness

On the first day of Hari Raya this year, I found myself noticing something strange. 

Nobody was fighting.

 

Now, to be clear, I do not mean a WWE-style folding-chair incident in the living room. My family has never been that dramatic. We are more sophisticated. We specialise in subtler sports: passive-aggressive remarks over ketupat, strategic silence during photo-taking, and the occasional sentence that begins with, “Eh, not to say anything ah…” which always means the speaker is absolutely about to say something.

 

But this year felt different.

 

There was a calmness in the house. A softness. A strange and unfamiliar atmosphere where people were… cooperating. I almost checked the calendar to make sure it was really Hari Raya and not some alternate universe where everyone had gone for therapy.

 

The usual sounds were still there. Children running around like they had consumed battery acid. Plates clinking. Someone asking where the sambal was when it was directly in front of them. The television playing festive songs from a decade when microphones sounded tired. But beneath all that was another feeling.

 

Settled-ness.

 

That is the only word I can think of. Not excitement. Not joy in the loud, cinematic sense. Not the kind of Raya advertisement happiness where everyone is laughing while carrying trays in slow motion.

 

This was something quieter.

 

It was the peace of people who have lived long enough to know what matters and what does not. I think we are all growing older. This is not a groundbreaking observation. Time has been doing this to everyone quite consistently. But it became visible to me this Raya.

 

My younger brothers are no longer just “my younger brothers.” They are fathers now. Husbands. Men with children to feed, bills to pay, schedules to coordinate, tiny humans to transport, and WhatsApp groups to mute. They arrive not just with themselves, but with diaper bags, snacks, emotional fatigue, and the thousand invisible calculations that adulthood demands. They carry their own households now. And yet, while carrying all that, they still carry responsibility towards our ageing parents. That balancing act is no joke. To care for children while caring for parents is to become a bridge between generations. You are needed from both sides. Someone needs milk powder. Someone needs medication. Someone is crying. Sometimes it is the toddler. Sometimes it is the parent. Sometimes it is you in the toilet, quietly.

 

There is no applause for this stage of life. No medals are given for remembering everyone’s appointments while pretending you are not tired. And perhaps that is why this year felt more tender. Because when people are carrying so much, they become less interested in carrying grudges too.

 

When we are younger, conflict can feel like a hobby. We debate everything. We defend our pride like it is national treasure. We insist on being right with the passion of people who still have functioning knees and uninterrupted sleep. We have time to replay old arguments. We have energy to be offended. We can dedicate three whole afternoons to wondering why an aunt used that tone in 2017.

 

But adulthood introduces invoices.

 

Suddenly there are school fees, work deadlines, medical concerns, grocery lists, leaking taps, childcare arrangements, tax forms, insurance renewals, and the mystery of where all your money disappears by the second week of the month. Under such conditions, many quarrels lose their glamour. You begin to ask practical questions.

 

Is this argument worth my blood pressure?

 

Do I really need to correct this person today?

 

Must I revisit a misunderstanding from 2009 while holding a plate of lontong?

 

The answer is often no.

 

Maturity is not always wisdom. Sometimes it is just exhaustion with better vocabulary.

 

Every family has an archive. Stored somewhere in memory are the old incidents. The betrayals. The sharp words. The moments nobody forgot even if everyone pretended to.

Families are remarkable institutions. They can preserve trauma more efficiently than national libraries.

 

Someone remembers who did not attend a wedding twenty years ago.

 

Someone remembers a loan never repaid.

 

Someone remembers who insulted whose cooking in 1998.

 

Someone remembers a sentence said in anger and has lovingly polished it ever since.

 

These things sit quietly in the room during gatherings, even when uninvited. But this Raya, I sensed an unspoken agreement.

 

We all knew where the sensitive landmines were.

 

We all knew which stories could reopen wounds.

 

We all knew which bandages, if ripped off for entertainment, would only make everyone bleed again. And somehow, collectively, silently, maturely—we stepped around them.

 

No meeting was held.

 

No family charter was signed.

 

Nobody stood up and said, “Dear all, for Q2 we will be prioritising emotional regulation.”

Yet it happened.

 

People changed the subject. People let comments pass. People chose mercy over momentum. That is no small thing. There is pressure sometimes, especially during festive seasons. To say we must forgive and forget, it sounds too neat. Rhymes well. Fits nicely on greeting cards. But real life is rarely so tidy.

 

Some things cannot be forgotten because they shaped us. Pain leaves fingerprints. A harsh childhood, neglect, humiliation, betrayal, absence, addiction, emotional coldness—these do not vanish because ketupat has been served. Memory is stubborn.

 

So perhaps forgetting is not always the goal.

 

Perhaps what we need is a gentler version of freedom. To remember without living inside the memory. To acknowledge harm without allowing it to steer every present moment. To know what happened and still decide that the story will not own the rest of our lives.

Forgiveness, then, is less about declaring someone innocent. It is more about refusing to keep drinking poison because somebody else was toxic. It is releasing yourself from permanent attachment to injury.

 

And sometimes forgiveness is partial.

 

Sometimes it arrives in installments.

 

Sometimes it looks like being civil at lunch.

 

Sometimes it looks like not retaliating.

 

Sometimes it looks like saying, “I understand why they became that way,” while still keeping healthy distance.

 

Sometimes it looks like helping an ageing parent despite unresolved history.

 

That too is grace. 

 

There is another reason the house felt softer this year. Life has frightened us recently.

We almost lost our mother on multiple occasions. Nothing rearranges priorities like hospital corridors. Nothing exposes the fragility of our dramas like seeing someone you love become suddenly vulnerable.

 

The people who once seemed permanent begin to look human.

 

The mother who managed everything becomes someone needing help to stand.

 

The person who held the family together becomes the reason the family gathers more gently.

 

Mortality has a way of silencing petty noise.

 

When you realise time is finite, old grudges start looking embarrassingly expensive. You begin to understand that one day, the voices in the house will go quiet.

 

One day, the chairs will be empty.

 

One day, the recipes may survive longer than the cooks.

 

And so if there is laughter available now, you take it. If there is peace available now, you protect it. If there is a chance to be kind now, you stop postponing it. We often mistake drama for aliveness. If things are calm, we think something is missing. If there is no tension, no shouting, no emotional plot twist, we assume life has become dull.

 

But settled-ness is not boring.

 

Settled-ness is expensive.

 

It is purchased through years of mistakes, apologies, heartbreaks, funerals, near-misses, sleepless nights, reconciliations, and the slow education of pain. It is earned. It is the wisdom of knowing not every thought needs expression. It is the discipline of letting small irritations die young. It is the compassion of recognising everyone is carrying private burdens. It is the elegance of restraint.

 

Young people often think peace is natural.

 

Older people know peace is maintenance.

 

Maybe that is one hidden purpose of Hari Raya. Yes, it is celebration. Yes, it is food. Yes, it is seeing relatives you only remember through forwarded messages. But perhaps it is also practice. Practice in returning. Practice in greeting people despite history. Practice in generosity. Practice in patience when someone asks why you are still single, still childless, still thin, still fat, still working there, still not working there, still existing in ways that confuse them. Practice in forgiveness. Practice in becoming the sort of person who can sit in a complicated room and still offer warmth.

 

Not because everyone deserves it equally.

 

But because you deserve to become someone peaceful.

As I watched my brothers tending to their children, checking on our parents, managing spouses, carrying bags, serving food, laughing at nonsense, I felt proud. Not loudly proud. Not cinematic proud.

 

Quietly proud.

 

We have all been shaped by the same storms in different ways. Yet here we were. Still showing up. Still trying. Still learning how to love each other with the tools we have. That is enough to honour.

 

Families do not become perfect. They become possible.

 

Sometimes that is miracle enough.

 

As the season continues, I do not wish people perfect families. That would be unrealistic and frankly suspicious. I do not wish people flawless reunions, because someone will still say something unnecessary before dessert. I do not even wish people total forgetting. Some histories deserve remembrance.

 

What I wish is something quieter.

 

May you find settled-ness.

 

May you know which battles no longer deserve your strength.

 

May you carry responsibility without losing tenderness.

 

May you forgive where you can, protect yourself where you must, and release what no longer serves you.

 

May old wounds stop auditioning for lead roles in your present life.

 

May you laugh loudly, eat slowly, and leave with your peace intact.

 

And if your family gathering is chaotic, awkward, emotional, noisy, or gloriously imperfect—may you still find one small corner of calm within it. Sometimes that is where celebration truly lives.

 

Selamat Hari Raya.

 

May peace visits you too.

Written by: Adi Jamaludin