The Art of Grit

(6 Minutes)

When we’re young, the world feels like it’s out there—far beyond our reach—beckoning us with promises of something better, something shinier, something grander than the life we were given. We chase after it, eager to leave behind the familiar faces, the old traditions, the well-worn paths. We want to carve our own way, make our own name, become something new.

But as time passes, life has a way of nudging us—sometimes gently, sometimes with a jolt—back toward the very things we once overlooked. There’s a strange, quiet magic in getting older. If we’re lucky, it brings us back full circle. Not out of resignation, but out of a deeper kind of reverence—a realization that what we thought we had to escape was never the problem. We just hadn’t yet learned how to see it.

I had this realization recently while watching Indonesia’s Hari Tari Sedunia (World Dance Day) video. It was beautifully produced, showcasing the astonishing diversity and richness of our traditional dances. The colors, the movements, the stories told through rhythm and motion—they stopped me in my tracks. For a moment, I wasn’t watching it as entertainment. I was remembering.

I was remembering the stories I had heard growing up. The ceremonies. The community gatherings. The warmth and spontaneity of people who may not have had much, but who gave generously. I was remembering the music echoing in the background of my childhood, the scent of incense, the easy laughter, the shared understanding that didn’t need to be explained—it just was.

And yet, for years, I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t think it mattered. I was too busy looking outward. Too busy falling in love with the sound of my own ambition. Too focused on the glint and glimmer of my reflection in the mirror to notice the treasure right in front of my eyes.

But the world—in its mysterious kindness—offers perspective. It gives us time and distance, not to push us further away, but to give us the angle we need to truly see. And what I saw in that video was more than a showcase of culture. It was a mirror of my own journey. It was proof that, despite all my running, my root had never changed. My deep love for the place that gave me life has never wavered—it was simply waiting for me to catch up to it.

Indonesia, in its rawest, most authentic self, is beautiful. Its people—kind, resilient, vibrant—carry a spirit that no politicized version of religion or modern ideology can smother. Yes, religion has helped shape the beauty of our cultural identity. But it’s when belief becomes a tool for power and division that it betrays its purpose. Even still, beneath all that noise, if you sit and really look—if you let yourself connect—you’ll find the real Indonesia. The one that existed before the labels. The one that lives in every shared meal, every gesture of hospitality, every smile exchanged between strangers.

I used to think I needed something grander to feel fulfilled. But I’ve come to understand: we don’t need to search so far. What we need is often right here. Right now. If we let wisdom creep in, if we open our eyes and stop chasing the illusion of “better,” we can wake up to what’s always been ours—and always been enough.

Sometimes, growth looks like coming home. Not to a place, but to a way of seeing. To a way of honoring what made us. To a truth that’s been patient with us all along.

So I leave you with this: take a moment, as you watch the Hari Tari Sedunia video I’ve embedded below, to not just observe the beauty—but to feel it. Let it stir something in you. Think about the home you miss the most. Not just a physical place, but maybe a part of yourself you left behind in pursuit of something else. Let this be your quiet permission—or maybe your gentle nudge—to begin the journey back. It takes courage to come home. But sometimes, that’s the most powerful journey of all.