ChiCuapCuap~

For the past few days, something in my husband has felt… altered. Not abruptly, not loudly, but in a way that unsettles. As if something within him has quietly shifted out of place. Our laughter, once harmless, now seems to grate on him too loud, too intrusive. Whatever my child does is deemed wrong, and somehow, I become the recipient of his discontent. Each time his temper rises, I retreat into silence. Not because I am blameless, nor because I have nothing to say, but because I have learned that resistance only prolongs the unrest.

And yet, at the very beginning of this month, something fractured.

We argued, truly argued, in a way we rarely do. Because this time, I did not remain silent. I answered him. I met his gaze without flinching. I returned every harsh word, my composure unraveling until even my own restraint betrayed me, and even threw my phone in a surge of emotion.

It all unfolded before our child, who was already crying in pain, his small arm having been roughly pulled as my husband dragged him from the living room, where laughter had only moments before filled the air.

The contrast was unbearable.

Truthfully, I have been enduring for far longer than I care to admit. Existing in a state of quiet endurance, hoping that something might shift on its own.

He is aware that he is unemployed, and yet he does not seem to grasp the gravity of that reality. If he cannot yet provide in one way, could he not compensate in another? The house, the child, the invisible labor that sustains our daily lives these are not mine alone to carry.

Isn’t this our home? Then why does everything feel like it’s solely my responsibility? The house, our child, everything falls on me. I am so, so tired. And yet, I carry them. Exhaustion has become a constant undercurrent in me. Meanwhile, he drifts through his days, retiring at three in the morning after hours of gaming, waking near midday, repeating the same rhythm without disruption. Even in moments meant for togetherness, his attention remains tethered to his phone. His presence is merely physical, his mind and affections remain elsewhere, inaccessible.

It is a peculiar kind of loneliness. And slowly, inevitably, it ignited something in me. All of this kept building inside me until I finally broke.

If even our laughter is an affront to him, then perhaps it is we who must leave. I told him we would return to my parents’ home, to a place where my child’s joy would not be treated as a disturbance. I spoke with a steadiness that belied the turbulence within me. My child’s cries threaded through every word, turning the moment into something I will not easily forget.

Then he left. No explanation. No attempt to mend what had just been shattered. Just absence.

A thought, stark and unsettling, crossed my mind. If his anger had escalated further, if he had raised his hand again, that would have been my definitive moment. The moment I would leave without hesitation. But somehow, he held himself back.

Still, I could not help but wonder, he has only just secured a single freelance project, and already he carries himself as though burdened beyond measure. If such a small responsibility unsettles him, what would happen if he were entrusted with more? 

A harsher thought followed, unbidden. Perhaps this is why he has not yet been granted stability. Perhaps he is not ready. And yet, even as the thought formed, I recoiled from it. What kind of wife entertains such notions?

I have been told, often, that a wife must remain grateful, must remain supportive, that a wife’s disposition can ease her husband’s path to provision. But if that gratitude must be feigned, does it still hold meaning? And would God not perceive the dissonance between what is spoken and what is truly felt?

Then came another possibility, distance.

Perhaps we would be better apart, at least for a time. Perhaps in separation, we might find clarity that proximity has denied us. Or perhaps… it is nothing more than a justification, a quiet permission I grant myself to leave a home that no longer feels hospitable to my child’s laughter.

Some time later, he returned. He held us, both of us and apologized. His voice softer, his presence gentler, as though attempting to gather what had come undone.

But something within me remained unmoved.

And that, perhaps, is what troubles me most, not the anger, not the argument, but the quiet, growing realization that forgiveness no longer comes to me as easily as it once did.

 Jadi, begini ya rasanya menjadi tulang punggung keluarga?

Masih tanggal segini, tapi uang sudah habis. Ini sudah kedua kalinya saldo ATM tidak sampai seratus ribu, bahkan kali ini, lima puluh ribu pun tidak ada. Gas di rumah juga sudah habis. Kalau salah satu dari gas untuk water heater atau kompor mati, tidak ada cadangan. Harus dipakai bergantian sampai gajian tiba, padahal gajian masih seminggu lagi.

Beberapa malam terakhir, aku sering terbangun. Bukan karena suara, tapi karena pikiran. Besok makan apa? Itu yang terus berputar di kepala. Beras sudah hampir habis, dan mau tidak mau harus beli. Aku jadi teringat sesuatu yang pernah aku baca: selama masih punya uang, belilah beras lebih banyak. Supaya ketika nanti tidak punya uang, setidaknya di rumah masih ada yang bisa dimasak. Soal lauk, entah apa. Bahkan dengan kerupuk pun, rasanya sudah cukup untuk disyukuri.

Tapi tetap saja, ada satu pertanyaan yang terus mengganggu: apakah kami bisa bertahan sampai seminggu ke depan?

Entahlah.

Yang bisa aku lakukan sekarang hanya berpegang pada satu hal, percaya. Tuhan Maha Penyayang, Maha Pemurah, Maha Pemberi Rezeki. Meski kadang logika tidak bisa menjangkau, aku memilih untuk tetap percaya. Aku sudah sampai di titik pasrah, tapi bukan berarti menyerah. Aku tetap berjuang, setidaknya untuk bertahan.

Ketika hidup terasa sempit, percaya adalah ruang terakhir yang harus dijaga.

Malam itu, ada hal kecil yang tiba-tiba terasa besar padahal biasanya biasa saja. Suamiku ingin membuat mi untuk camilan. Padahal kami sudah makan nasi dengan ayam, bahkan dia sempat menambah. Aku sempat bertanya, “Lapar atau cuma ingin?” Dia menjawab, “Dua-duanya.” Aku diam sebentar, lalu hanya bilang, “Buat secukupnya saja, ya.”

Bukan tanpa alasan. Aku benar-benar tidak tahu kapan kami bisa belanja lagi. Di titik ini, aku sadar, makan bukan lagi soal keinginan, tapi soal kebutuhan. Keinginan untuk sekadar “ngunyah” terasa seperti kemewahan yang harus ditahan. Dan aku pun melakukan hal yang sama. Hari itu, aku sempat ingin makan burger. Sederhana, tapi terasa jauh. Aku menahan keinginan itu, mencoba mengingatkan diri sendiri bahwa sekarang bukan waktunya mengikuti hasrat. Makan harus karena butuh, bukan karena ingin. Karena hidup, ternyata, tidak sesederhana itu.

Saat keinginan harus dikalahkan oleh kebutuhan, di situlah hidup mengajarkan arti cukup.

Aneh ya, di tengah semua ini, nafsu makanku justru perlahan menghilang. Porsiku semakin sedikit, bahkan kadang malas makan. Mungkin ini caraku beradaptasi. Yang penting anak makan, yang penting suami makan sampai kenyang. Apalagi sekarang, aku tahu suamiku sedang rentan stres. Jadi aku harus lebih kuat, atau setidaknya terlihat kuat.

Kadang, aku masih bisa tersenyum. Masih bisa tertawa kecil. Tapi saat menuliskan semua ini, rasanya getir sekali. Begini ya, ternyata, rasanya menjalani hidup sebagai tulang punggung keluarga, saat dihadapkan langsung dengan realita.

Wow, March feels incredibly full of highlights. Some of them could even stand as their own stories, because I truly felt overwhelmed by waves of emotions coming one after another.

The world doesn’t feel okay. News about the conflict between Iran and the United States even made its way into my dreams. I dreamed about a bomb explosion, I was not as the main target, but still affected by the blast. It felt so painful, so real, that I woke up crying in fear, the pain still lingering as if it were real.

At the same time, social media has been filled with discussions about the end of times according to the Qur’an. Many people are sharing the signs, as if everything is already so close and clearly unfolding. It made me even more afraid. But I also realize that I don’t fully know which ones truly come from the Qur’an and hadith, and which ones have been distorted. In the end, only Allah knows the truth.

Then came the news of Vidi Aldiano’s passing. I didn’t know him personally, and I didn’t really follow his life closely. But somehow, his positive aura reached through the screen. There was something different about him. When he passed away, I felt a sense of loss. Social media was filled with stories about his kindness, about how he kept smiling through his illness. He was called the Ambassador of Friendship, and it didn’t feel like just a title. His sincerity felt real.

His struggle against illness reminded me of the story of Nabi Ayyub about patience in enduring long trials. I couldn’t even bring myself to open social media for a while because my heart felt heavy with sadness. It’s strange how someone we’ve never met can move us so deeply. Then I thought… if an ordinary person can have such an impact, what about Nabi Muhammad? His passing must have been an unimaginable grief for his entire ummah.

Amid all of this, my fear of the world only grew stronger. And yet, life goes on sometimes in the simplest ways… tiring, but also quietly comforting.

This month, we also traveled back to my hometown for Eid. Traveling with a toddler turned out to be full of unexpected moments. Annoying? Yes. But at the same time, it made me smile. It felt like, “ah… life really does have its own way of surprising us.” Even my parents were overwhelmed taking care of my endlessly active child. Toddlers really are like they’re missing an “off” button, haha.

There was one particularly “epic” moment. We had to stop for almost two hours at a rest area just because my child spilled a large amount of drinking water so much that my pants were completely soaked. And this happened right after we had just resumed the trip. We had no choice but to stop, while the rest area was crowded and the toilet lines were incredibly long. So we decided to just wait it out until lunchtime. But then, we got ripped off, just a simple penyetan meal somehow cost over 100,000 rupiah. When you think about it, iced tea + rice + fried catfish was nearly 50,000 on its own. Crazy expensive. But well… what could we do? All I could do was laugh. Sometimes life just doesn’t make sense.

In the middle of exhaustion, frustration, and all the discomfort… there were still small moments that felt warm. Moments that one day might be remembered as simple stories worth missing.

At the same time, the past suddenly resurfaced. My ex sent me a follow request on Instagram. I haven’t accepted it until now. Not because I’m not over the past, but because I’m learning to protect myself from things that are no longer important in my life.

How can I divide myself not only as a “rib,” but also as a “backbone”?

I still believe that God is Most Wise. And somehow, that belief alone is what’s still holding my heart together… even as it slowly feels like it’s falling apart.

Hari pertama sahur tahun ini, tiba-tiba aku teringat satu momen lama, yakni masa-masa sahur di kosan. Waktu itu, aku hanya perlu bangun ketika ibu kos mengetuk pintu, biasanya mendekati imsak, sekitar pukul 4 pagi. Dengan mata setengah terbuka, aku tinggal antre mengambil makan dan minum. Sederhana, tanpa banyak pikir.

Sekarang, semuanya berbeda.

Aku justru harus menjadi orang pertama yang bangun. Pergi ke dapur saat rumah masih terlelap, menyiapkan sahur sambil berpacu dengan waktu. Bukan hanya soal memasak, tapi juga soal strategi bagaimana agar tidak terlalu lama meninggalkan anak yang masih tidur. Karena kalau ia terbangun, urusannya bisa panjang. Dan benar saja, sering kali di tengah sahur ia tetap terbangun. Akhirnya, aku dan suami harus bergantian menemaninya. Padahal, awalnya kami sempat menikmati sahur berdua dengan suasana yang hangat sedikit romantis di sela kesibukan. Tapi ya, begitulah hidup sekarang. Ada jeda, ada tawa, ada juga distraksi kecil yang justru terasa berarti.

Tempat sahur ternyata sangat menentukan ritme hidup.

Tahun ini, kami sempat dua minggu tinggal di rumah orang tua suami, seminggu sebelum Ramadhan dan seminggu saat Ramadhan. Di sana, aku harus bangun jauh lebih awal. Bahkan jam 2 dini hari, rasanya belum bisa disebut pagi. Menyiapkan sahur untuk keluarga besar bukan sekadar soal jumlah porsi, tapi soal ragam. Harus ada sayur berkuah, tumisan, lauk sebagai sumber protein. Minumannya pun tidak satu, tapi dua, ada teh hangat dan minuman rempah. Semuanya harus siap tepat waktu. Berbuka puasa bahkan lebih meriah lagi. Selain hidangan utama, ada berbagai takjil, bubur, hingga es-esan. Untungnya, ada rewang yang membantu. Kalau tidak, mungkin tenaga ini sudah habis duluan sebelum berbuka.

Setelah satu minggu yang terasa “dar der dor”, akhirnya kami kembali ke rumah sendiri. Tempat paling nyaman untuk kembali menjadi diri sendiri. Di sini, aku hanya perlu bangun sekitar jam 3 pagi. Tidak perlu banyak variasi, tidak perlu sempurna. Hanya kami berdua, makan seadanya, sesederhana mungkin. Bahkan untuk berbuka, kalau tidak sempat memasak, kami memilih membeli saja. Dan aku bersyukur, memiliki suami yang tidak banyak menuntut soal urusan dapur.

Memasuki minggu keempat, kami pulang ke kampung halamanku. Di sana, aku kembali menjadi “anak”. Bangun mendekati waktu sahur, lalu tinggal makan dan minum yang sudah tersedia. Tidak perlu memikirkan apa yang harus dimasak, tidak perlu terburu-buru ke dapur. Ibuku sudah menyiapkan semuanya. Dan di titik itu, aku terdiam sejenak. Apakah nanti, ketika aku seusianya, aku bisa melakukan hal yang sama?

Pertanyaan itu diam-diam menetap. Mengingatkanku untuk lebih sering membantu, lebih banyak belajar, dan diam-diam menyiapkan diri. Bukan hanya untuk bisa melakukan semuanya, tapi juga untuk membesarkan anak yang kelak punya empati dan kesadaran untuk membantu. Di rumah itu, dapur adalah wilayah ibuku. Sementara aku mengambil peran lain, membersihkan rumah, menyapu, mengepel, mencuci, menjemur, hingga menyetrika.

Perbedaan yang sangat mencolok ya, antara di rumah sendiri, di rumah mertua dan di rumah orang tua sendiri? 

Karena memang, di mana bumi dipijak, di situ langit dijunjung.

Padahal, setiap Ramadhan kami selalu pulang. Hanya saja, waktu dan tempatnya bergantian antara rumah orang tuaku dan mertua. Itu sudah menjadi kesepakatan kami sejak awal menikah. Merayakan hari Idul Fitri bergantian, jadi ya bisa dibilang merayakan hari Idul Fitri di rumah orang tuaku dua tahun sekali. 

Setidaknya, sekali dalam setahun kami pasti pulang. Ditambah jika ada libur panjang, acara keluarga, atau kebutuhan tertentu. Dan aku bersyukur, memiliki orang tua yang begitu pengertian.

H+2 Idul Fitri, kami kembali ke perantauan.

Hari ini, lagi-lagi aku merasa kecewa terhadap diriku sendiri melalui hasil assessment kuarter ini.

Sebetulnya, setiap kuarter divisi kami mengadakan assessment tentang product knowledge. Bisa berupa project based technical maupun non-technical, bisa juga berupa essay ataupun pilihan ganda. Dalam satu divisi ini terdapat beberapa role, engineer dan non engineer. Aku masuk kedalam role engineer.

Pengumuman hasil assessment dari tim divisi keluar hari ini. Sebagai seorang engineer, aku diharapkan memiliki kemampuan yang lebih dibandingkan dengan role staff umum atau non-engineer. Ekspektasinya jelas, aku seharusnya bisa berada di depan ketika ada issue dari klien dan lebih memahami seluk beluk produk hingga segi teknisnya. Namun kenyataannya, bahkan untuk masuk lima besar pun aku tidak mampu.

Rasanya seperti ditampar. Bukan hanya untuk diriku sendiri, tapi juga untuk orang-orang yang selama ini menaruh harapan lebih padaku. Ada rasa malu, ada rasa bersalah, dan yang paling berat… ada rasa tidak cukup. Hal seperti ini bukan hanya soal ranking. Ini juga tentang penilaian tahunan, tentang bagaimana perkembangan diriku dilihat, tentang masa depan yang perlahan terasa makin tidak pasti.

Pekerjaanku menuntutku untuk terus belajar, terus berkembang. Sebenarnya, hampir semua pekerjaan juga seperti itu. Kalau tidak bergerak maju, kita akan tertinggal. Tapi di bidang teknologi, semuanya terasa jauh lebih cepat. Perubahan datang tanpa jeda. Kompetisi tidak pernah berhenti. Dan aku… mulai merasa tertinggal.

Seolah hidup ini hanya dijalani untuk tidak tenggelam, bukan untuk benar-benar berenang ke tujuan. Jika terus seperti ini, aku tahu jawabannya: aku akan tergantikan. Dan pikiran itu menakutkan.

Aku juga mulai bertanya, apa yang sebenarnya bisa kulakukan untuk memperbaiki diriku? Bagaimana caranya membagi peran dalam hidup ini, di satu sisi menjadi seseorang yang hadir untuk orang lain, namun di sisi lain tetap mampu berdiri kuat sebagai penopang utama?