IF anyone tells you that “work-life balance” exists, they are either lying, deluded or living secretly as a monk somewhere in Genting Highlands.
For the rest of us in the trenches – working-class professionals with kids, mortgages and a perpetually half-empty fridge – it is not balance; it is juggling, often with one hand on a unicycle over a pit of crocodiles. And yet, somehow we keep going.
Take my mornings, for instance. My seven-year-old wants a full breakfast: chicken, rice, toast and water – not just any water, mind you, but the perfect temperature: not too hot and not too cold.
And then, there is the “special nugget” that only I know works like a magic potion to calm her autism-fuelled energy.
Meanwhile, my 10-year-old is busy debating life’s big questions over Milo: “Do people really need money to be happy?” And me? I’m rifling through a pile of homework, toy cars and unopened letters from the bank while desperately searching for my handphone.
By 7.15am, I am no longer just a mother or a professional; I am a multitasking, caffeine-fuelled octopus, trying to keep everything from collapsing before the morning chaos officially begins.
And the chaos does not stop there. At work, you are expected to stay fully focused, complete tasks efficiently and answer reporters’ questions with grace.
Yet, your brain keeps replaying the scene of your daughter climbing over the gate and sprinting 500m down the street – thanks to her elopement syndrome. It is amazing how quickly the mind can switch from a budget report to thinking, “Did I lock the front door?”
Colleagues think I’m superwoman. Me? I think I deserve a medal just for surviving another morning with my son as he interrogates why his burger isn’t cut into exactly four pieces while sipping his Milo and debating why it is called ketchup in America and not tomato sauce as in Malaysia.
When friends ask why I can’t catch up for a drink, they don’t know I have an 8pm appointment with chaos itself – otherwise known as homework and bedtime battles.
Then there is the commute – the daily two-hour trek from Seremban to Petaling Jaya that feels like surviving a full episode of The Amazing Race. It is also prime time for reflection: How can I do better today, impress my boss and get the recognition I deserve?
Or occasionally, it is just a mental replay of my youngest vomiting Milo on my way out the door and me wondering how I survived another morning.
Life lessons come in moments like these: patience, resilience and the uncanny ability to negotiate peace treaties over breakfast or mop up breakfast disasters in record time.
Lunch breaks aren’t much of a break either. I may sneak in a quick nasi lemak from the cafeteria, only to be interrupted by a WhatsApp message from school: “Your child forgot to bring his homework” or “Minor incident – nothing serious, just a tear in the pants.”
By the time I return to my desk, my brain is juggling work deadlines and home crises at the same time. I start thinking in multiple languages – English for work, Malay for school updates and a secret “parent code” for negotiating with my children that no one else understands.
Dinner is another spectacle. “Don’t put onions in my scrambled eggs, Amma!” cries one child while the other insists on mutton curry or chicken rice, depending on the day – the only food God ever created.
My husband and I exchange a look across the table: equal parts exhaustion, amusement and mild terror. Somewhere between the laughter and the scolding, we realise perfection is a myth.
Happiness is when everyone is fed, still speaking to each other and no one is smeared in kopi-O, sambal or anything else that can’t be tossed into the washing machine.
It is when your child spontaneously hugs you, your boss surprises you with karipap and nasi lemak or a traffic jam on the PLUS Highway turns into an unexpected solo sing-along because, let’s be honest, sometimes you are the only one keeping your sanity intact.
People often ask, “How do you manage it all?” I laugh. Manage? I don’t manage. I juggle. Sometimes things fall. Sometimes I drop a ball or two. And sometimes, through sheer luck, everything lands neatly back in place.
Juggling is messy, chaotic and utterly human but it’s also beautiful. Amid the chaos are tiny, sparkling moments that make it all worthwhile – when my children say, “I love you, Amma”, when a colleague notices your efforts or when everyone is finally asleep on a rare quiet evening and you can savour a hot cup of Bru coffee in peace without anyone asking for a sip.
Life as a working-class professional is not about balance; it is about improvisation, humour and learning to let go of guilt. It is about realising that “work-life balance” is just a fancy way of saying, “I have no idea how to manage my life.”
Above all, it is about juggling and somehow laughing through it all.
Here’s to all of us who juggle, stumble, drop a ball and pick it up again: we may not have balance but we have grit, love and enough Milo, teh tarik and caffeine to fuel a small country. Sometimes, that is more than enough.
Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
