A Quiet Front Row seat
- jeromesiow
- Feb 1
- 7 min read
Updated: 8 hours ago
February 2026
When the Usual Path No Longer Fits
There are seasons in life when the familiar route stops making sense. Not because it is wrong, but because it no longer fits the person walking it. This journey did not begin with certainty. It began with a simple question: must growth always follow a straight line, or are there times when stepping aside is the wiser move?
In Singapore, the usual path is often clear. Study hard. Do well in exams. Progress step by step. In sport, the expectations are just as defined. Fit the profile early. Show results quickly. Move on if you do not. For many, this system works. But for some, it does not. Those who develop at a different pace, mature later, or learn best outside a standard framework can find themselves out of place, not because they lack effort, but because they do not fit neatly into the system.
When progress becomes more about predictability than potential, staying on the same path can start to feel like going through the motions. That was the point where a different choice was made. Choosing to move sideways was not about rejecting discipline or structure. It was about stepping away from narrow definitions of success, and finding a space where effort, learning, and resilience still counted. If the main road is built for speed and conformity, then sometimes the more honest way forward is to take a less travelled route.
Choosing the Longer Way Around
This was not the most direct approach. It was not the safest. Not the most efficient. And not the path most people would recommend.
It meant leaving what was comfortable and stepping into something unfamiliar, without knowing how it would turn out. From the outside, it probably looked unnecessary. From the inside, it felt honest.
What made it harder was knowing that he did not have the kind of advantage that opens doors easily. He knew it too. He was not the obvious choice. Not the natural standout. Not the one people would point to and say, “This one got talent.”
There were quiet worries along the way. Whether he would be able to keep up. Whether the gap would feel too big. Whether effort alone would be enough in a setting that often favours early promise over steady progress. Still, he chose to keep going.
Not because he thought he was gifted, but because he believed in work. In showing up every day. In listening. In taking correction. In doing the hard, repetitive things even when no one was watching. That belief mattered.
Sometimes, taking the longer way around is the only way to understand what you are really chasing, and what you are prepared to give to get there.
The Leap Before the Evidence
There are moments when waiting for certainty means not moving at all.
There was no guarantee this would work. No promise of results. No assurance of selection, recognition, or progress. And yet, the decision was made. It did not begin with confidence. It began with a choice, to move forward before everything was clear, trusting that effort would bring understanding where planning could not.
The leap itself was brief. What followed lasted much longer.
Most days looked the same. Returning to the water. Listening. Taking correction. Working through tiredness when improvement was not obvious. There were no signs to say the effort would be noticed, only the discipline to continue.
Some days felt heavier than others. Doubt came quietly. Progress felt slow. Stopping would have been easier. Still, he stayed.
Not for recognition, and not because the outcome was certain. Once the choice was made, the work had to be respected. The leap created the opportunity. Staying with it gave the journey its meaning.
Over time, it became clear that courage was not found in the jump itself, but in the willingness to remain — to sit with uncertainty, to trust the process, and to keep going long after the excitement of the decision had passed.
That is what it means to go the distance.
Showing Up Without Noise
From the stands, it was clear this was not about standing out. He did not arrive as the biggest, the fastest, or the loudest. There was no announcement, no entitlement, no expectation of accommodation.
There was only a willingness to show up, to listen, to take correction, and to accept discomfort as part of the process, even when confidence had not yet arrived.
Each day asked the same quiet question: Will you return tomorrow?
And each day, he did.
In a place like Singapore, it is easy to be overlooked if you do not fit the profile early. When attention goes to those who show promise quickly, others learn to grow quietly, without notice. This was one of those situations.
Bravery did not come in bold gestures, but in staying present. In continuing when fatigue set in. In remaining open when mistakes were visible. In choosing effort over retreat when stepping away would have been easier.
Along the way, something else took shape.
Friendships formed through shared effort. Through training endured together. Through small, unspoken encouragements. In the water, labels mattered less. What counted was who stayed, who worked, and who could be relied on.
Confidence followed, slowly.
Not the kind that draws attention, but the kind that comes from belonging, from contributing, and from knowing you can hold your place without needing to prove it.
That consistency largely unseen, mattered. It was not evidence of talent, but of character being built, one day at a time.
Learning What Cannot Be Taught at Home
Some lessons cannot be explained.
They have to be lived away from familiar voices, routines, and safety nets.
In a new setting, everything felt sharper. Fatigue was real. Comparison was unavoidable. Doubt surfaced easily. And yet, so did growth. Not dramatic. Not obvious. But steady.
The learning went beyond the physical.
There were new expectations to read, different standards to adjust to, and unspoken rules that had to be picked up along the way. No one sat down to explain them. You noticed, adapted, and carried on.
Friendships formed in that space of adjustment. Not through comfort, but through shared challenge. Training alongside others who moved differently, spoke differently, and came from different places. In the water, differences faded. What mattered was effort.
Here, learning went beyond borders.
It was no longer just about drills or outcomes, but about awareness, how others trained, how they responded under pressure, how discipline looked in different environments. Growth was no longer measured only by performance, but by adaptability.
This was not about proving anything to anyone.
It was about finding out, quietly, whether effort could still be given when comfort and reassurance were no longer there. That lesson does not end when the journey does. It comes home.
Not a Shortcut, But a Foundation
This journey may not lead where it was first imagined. It may not unfold in a straight line. It may not even look successful by conventional measures. But it has already done something important. It has laid a foundation.
There are times when progress requires a quieter kind of courage. Not the push to go harder on a familiar road, but the decision to step into the unknown when the old markers no longer apply. To move forward without certainty, trusting that preparation will hold when clarity does not.
This path was never meant to be a shortcut. It asked for patience, humility, and the willingness to keep going without reassurance.
What carried him through was not confidence in outcomes, but belief in the work already done. Training that built habits. Discipline that could be relied on when conditions were uncertain. Effort that did not depend on attention or reward.
That belief matters.
Because when direction is unclear, strength comes not from knowing where you will land, but from knowing what you can carry with you. The lessons from this journey, effort, resilience, and self-trust do not disappear when the setting changes. They move forward.
Whether the future leads back home, into sport, into study overseas, or somewhere not yet visible, this foundation will remain. Foundations are not meant to be seen. They are meant to hold.
The Privilege of Proximity
The greatest value of this journey was not in where it went, but in being close enough to witness it. To watch growth without stepping in. To share the quiet parts — tiredness, small conversations, long pauses. To realise that some chapters are not meant to be optimised. They are meant to be lived. Some journeys are loud. This one was quiet. And that is why it mattered.
There are moments in life that do not repeat themselves. Not because they were imperfect, but because they belonged to a particular time, a particular age, a particular window where courage and opportunity met. Once it passes, it cannot be recreated. Only remembered. To be present for a moment like that is a privilege. It was, in the end, a front-row seat for the Dad.
A Father’s Note
This was written to capture a moment, not an outcome.
In Singapore, we are used to measuring progress clearly results, grades, selections. This journey mattered for a different reason. It created space to observe effort, resilience, and growth, without the need to intervene or direct.
As I watched this moment unfold, I thought of my own father. Of the values he laid down quietly, through consistency rather than words. He would not see the next chapter unfold, but he would have understood why this one mattered.
Some experiences cannot be planned or repeated. They belong to a specific time and season, and then pass. Their value lies simply in being present when they do.
Thank you for laying the values. We will carry them with us.
I will see you again...
In loving memory of
David Siow
Dad. Granddad.
1946 – 2026
"Some moments are loud. The ones that shape us most are quiet."
Emett (UDA)
Follow Ethel's story: https://www.etheluncaged.com/post/the-shoulders-i-stand-on-a-thank-you-to-my-mentors
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