When I was a child, Hari Raya Puasa was always loud—music, laughter, people coming and going all day. My family would visit houses full of food and cousins playing outside, while inside the adults chatted about everything. I remember once, after eating too many sweets, I slipped outside and found my uncle alone, sitting quietly away from the noise. I joined him, wondering why he did not want to be with everyone else. He smiled, saying, 'Some people just enjoy quiet moments more. We are introverts, maybe.' I liked that word; it made me feel less strange for wanting a break from the party.
Now, years later, I still think of that afternoon every Eid. My friends often invite me out for big celebrations, but I prefer smaller, simpler gatherings. My ideal holiday is a walk in the park or even going paddleboarding by the river—just the sound of water and maybe one close friend. I even chose a no strings attached registry office wedding, with only the officiant and two friends as witnesses. People sometimes ask if I miss the old, busy celebrations or if I ever feel lonely. I always reiterate that joy can look different for everyone.
Working as a volunteer with refugee families has taught me more about celebration and belonging. Some families continue their traditions in silence, carrying memories far from home. During Hari Raya Puasa, I sometimes invite one or two refugees to join me for a quiet meal. These are not big parties, but we share food and stories. Each year, I remember my uncle’s words, and I know it is okay to celebrate in my own quiet way.
