This morning I was giggling like a kid because my sprout experiment using this precious box actually worked. Three days only, and boom! Fresh, crunchy toge ready to eat. My kid and I munched them like goats, straight from the plate, dipped in our beloved Kewpie sauce. Cleaner, fresher, and somehow more satisfying than the sad, wilted ones I sometimes got from the market. Bonus point: my eldest already has a business plan to sell bakwan made from her DIY toge to her roommates when she’s abroad. That’s the spirit of entrepreneurship right there, thanks to bean sprouts.
By noon, my mood was still sunny. I managed to surprise everyone at home with their favorite treats: durian sticky rice for my husband, bubur sumsum for me, jagung susu keju for my kid, and peach gum dessert for my mom. I didn’t make them from scratch, let’s not get carried away. I ordered from ShopeeFood, of course, because why not cash in on promotions and referral commissions while feeding the whole family? Two birds, one promo code.
Then, as if life wanted to balance things out, at night I got sucked into family group chats about the Jakarta protests. My siblings updated me about the heartbreaking news: an ojol driver died in an accident with Brimob. He was only 21. I couldn’t even watch the video, they said it was too brutal. My chest felt tight just imagining what his parents must be going through. One moment you send your kid off to work, the next moment you receive the worst phone call of your life. The fragility of everything hit me hard.
It reminded me of something I once learned in an innerwork class, that human beings connect through two wells: identity and despair.
Identity is what gives us belonging. Ethnicity, religion, education, even the neighborhood we grew up in. That’s why we get giddy when we meet someone from the same hometown or school. It feels like meeting an old friend even if we’ve never spoken before. Shared identity is a shortcut to trust.
But despair… that’s different. Despair is raw. It cuts through identity and goes straight to the bone. When people despair together, solidarity becomes fierce. Sometimes it’s beautiful, like how communities rally after an earthquake. But sometimes it’s dangerous, like riots sparked from hopelessness and rage. Despair unites people beyond identity, but it’s fueled by pain.
It reminds me of Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, where he wrote: “In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning.” Maybe that’s why despair can be so unifying. Because people desperately want to make sense of their pain, together.
The question is, what do we build from that connection? Do we create something healing, or do we spiral into destruction?
I like to think trust is the bridge here. And trust is tricky, it’s not a one-size-fits-all formula. What feels trustworthy to me may not to you, because interpretation is personal. Still, the roots are often the same: integrity, competency, reliability, and identity. Some people call it character and competence, some say it’s about consistency. But however we define it, we all know when trust feels real, and when it doesn’t.
I guess what I’m learning is this: if we want healthier connections, we need to keep our wells filled with identity that uplifts, not just wait until despair forces us to unite. Sprouts, fandoms, shared meals, little rituals... these small things matter more than they look. The older I get, the more I believe that solidarity born of love lasts longer than solidarity born of pain. Despair might unite us in the moment, but love keeps us connected in the long run.
Don’t wait for despair to force connection. Reach out now. Text that person you’ve been meaning to check on. Invite someone for coffee. Share food. Share laughter. Plant bean sprouts if you want (seriously, it’s absurdly easy). Build your well with living water, not just the tears of crisis.
Because when the storms do come (and they always come) you’ll already have a well deep enough to sustain you, and enough water to share with others. And maybe that’s what it means, in the end, to live meaningfully: to keep building wells of identity, filled not only with who we are, but with how much love we’re willing to pour into each other’s cups.
Stay safe, stay connected.
Love,
Nuniek Tirta
