Contributed by Wendy ML Tan • Aug 12, 2025

Twice this year, I was supposed to draw out my ‘life graph’ as part of a camp and a campus’ care group activity. I could not do so. A flurry of thoughts would come to mind and I would find myself fixated on certain points in time that I wish I could erase and forget, particularly the conflicts and failed reconciliations in the past year or two. I just couldn’t get past them and it hurt me so much that frequently when I am alone in my car or in my bedroom, I would tear up. Not many people knew about the extent of the pain that I was carrying in my mind and heart.

That is why when I received my diagnosis this recent Tuesday, and told my friends about it, many were in disbelief. “How can it be? It’s not noticeable and you are very sociable. Are you sure?” Initially, I too, was in shock. I spent hours scrolling through Google and social media. Reading bite-size information about it, and people’s comments on their experiences, I resonated with a lot of things associated with what the diagnosis meant. My surprise and shock began to turn into relief.

Since I was young, I had always wondered about many things; how I was different from other people, in the most generous sense. I find the smell of freshly cut grass and nutmeg oil nauseating. Spotlights, even the ones in our auditorium, irritated my eyes. I would cover my ears while sitting in the hospital’s waiting area to drown out the noise around me and I would tense up at the sound of a harsh whirr of a drill or a roaring grass blower. I would embarrassingly yawn when the room temperature gets too cold. These are just a few of the sensory overloads that I have learned to navigate around on a daily basis without knowing that they were actually coping mechanisms. To me, I attributed my sensitivity to smell to the long list of allergies that I do have. I wear a cap to block out light because I have high astigmatism. I will just go to another room or drive somewhere when the sounds and heat get to me. I sometimes carry an extra scarf or cardigan with me in case it gets a little chilly.

I wonder, if by now, some of you would have guessed what the diagnosis was.

It’s barely been a week. From my recent days of personal reflection, I want to:

• Thank God for His extraordinary love, grace and mercy throughout my life.
• Thank God for His divine timing — He waited 49 years to reveal this diagnosis to me knowing that I will only be ready to fully embrace it now.
• Thank God that He placed me in DUMC. I can confidently say that the large majority of friends here value me as a person. I have received so many words of encouragement and prayer with positive affirmations for my future.
• Thank God that He spoke through Pastor Terry’s sermon this weekend, with a message that rings loudly in my ears: Focus on Christ Jesus.
• Thank God that He orchestrated the arrangements of activities between me and my Co-Lead so that I will end up being the main writer for Engage this weekend and purposefully share this piece of personal reflection with you.
• Thank God for His wisdom through our Senior Pastor Chris Kam’s preaching and teaching. I have learned that in the face of troubles, I will not ask God, “Why me?”. In fact, I asked Him, “Now what? With this knowledge, what are Your plans and will for my life?”
• Thank God for my brothers. My younger sibling gave me a few days to calm down before asking me, “How are you, jie? If you need me, any time, I am here.” My older brother emphasized, “You are my sister. You’re still you. Nothing has changed.”

Without a doubt in my heart, I will cling to God in all circumstances of my life. Above all else, I am reminded of my identity in Christ. I am a precious child of God. I am special and wired differently but like you, like all of us, I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). Our God is greater and bigger than any label or diagnosis. And as I continue to journey on in life and walk with Jesus, I know that nothing can separate me from His love (Romans 8:38-39).

God is worthy. Only He deserves our worship.