TLDR: My mother was a lifelong Buddhist who planned her final rites well in advance. When my overseas sister tried to convert her in her final days, the family spun into confusion and fear. This is how I steadied myself, respected my mother’s wishes, sought guidance from a monk, and learnt to hold interfaith differences with gentleness.
Editor’s note: Key individuals and roles have been masked, given the sensitive nature of this life event.
The Quiet Faith My Mother Carried
My mother never made a show of being Buddhist. She didn’t quote suttas or correct anyone’s beliefs. She simply practised. Quietly.
I grew up watching her bow before the altar, chant softly before bed, and make offerings with a calm that seemed to lighten the whole flat. The smell of incense was part of home. Her faith wasn’t dramatic; it was a quiet practice. Never pushing others to be Buddhist and being ultra chill when my sister converted to another faith.
When she fell ill, she didn’t panic. She had arranged her funeral rites years earlier and even noted the chants she hoped the monks would recite. She used to joke that her children only needed to turn up and not mess anything up.
None of us expected the “messing up” to come from faith itself.
The Call That Changed Her Mood
One evening, when her illness had weakened her badly, my sister from overseas called. She belongs to another religion and believed she was helping. She said conversion would guarantee salvation and pressed the point on my dying mom.
I wasn’t there. Our mother was too frail to say much that night.
The next morning, our helper pulled me aside, with a shaky voice: “Sir, Madam is different today. Something happened yesterday.”
In the room, I saw a look I had never seen on my mother. She was a fog, a lostness. She struggled to meet my eyes.
I learnt she had verbally agreed to convert because she was exhausted and overwhelmed. It wasn’t a free choice. It was pressure at a moment when she could barely hold a cup in her hand.
The Panic That Made Me Regress
I froze, then spiralled. What if her life of practice was being overwritten? What if she died confused? What if this changed her rebirth?
Instead of thinking clearly, I did the most childlike thing: I leaned close to my mom and kept repeatedly saying, “Buddha is good. Buddha is the best. You cannot convert.” It was almost embarrassing. Fear made me sound like a five-year-old guarding a toy.
My mother looked at me with tired eyes, confused by my tone, my urgency, the storm around her.
In that moment, I realised the main problem wasn’t my sister’s action. It was my untrained reaction.
Settling Down
As I walked away from her bedside. Anger came next. It was hot and sharp. Why do this when Mum was so weak?
“How could my f***ing sister hellishly do this to mom??! Is she insane??” I muttered under my breath. If I had not controlled myself, I would have bought the earliest air ticket to the USA to hit her.
Why force what she didn’t believe? Do you lack basic human decency?
Anger helped no one. It only made the room heavier.
So I stepped outside. I breathed slowly and remembered a teaching I had heard many times: if your mind is messy, don’t go near the dying; they feel everything. That thought steadied me.
I went back in, sat by Mum’s bed, and held her hand without saying anything. No chants. No arguments. Just presence. Her shoulders softened. She didn’t need me to fight for her religion. She needed me to be calm.
Seeing her shaky with my angry tone was enough to make me not raise this up in front of her.
When She Passed, We Followed Her Wishes
Two weeks after that, my mother passed away. My sisters moved with the national day parade like precision.
They respected her original Buddhist funeral plans fully with the chanting, offerings, and the rites she had chosen and trusted. No one mentioned the phone call. No one tried to claim a last-minute change of faith.
It felt as if Mum’s steadiness guided us back.
A Monk’s Guidance On What Faith Really Is
Still, a lingering anxiety would not leave. I went to see ShifuYG, whom I trusted, and told him everything, including the childish “Buddha is good” moment.
He listened, then said something simple that cleared the doubt: if your mother had deep confidence in the Triple Gem, no pressured statement can uproot that. Faith is not a legal contract; it is the pattern of the heart. What she lived by is what she carried.
He added that at the moment of death, it’s the state of mind that matters, love, peace, and gratitude more than any external declaration. Keeping a kusala (wholesome) mind state is key.
Something in me let go then. I was relieved. My mother’s life spoke louder than any phone call-driven conversion.
Letting Go of My Sister’s Actions
Once fear eased, anger had nowhere to sit. I started to see my sister differently. She acted from her love language. In her pursuit of what she thought was best, it created confusion. She did not mean it. She truly thought she was helping.
Our beliefs clashed, but our intentions were not enemies.
Forgiveness wasn’t instant, but it became possible. It felt like a continuation of my mother’s gentleness. What would Buddha do? I would ask myself.
He would forgive again and again.
What This Taught Me About Interfaith Families
In Singapore and Malaysia, mixed-faith families are common. When sickness or death arrives, differences can sharpen quickly. The Dhamma keeps bringing me back to a few truths:
Protect the dying from conflict. Peace of mind is the best gift. It matters more than winning a religious argument.
Don’t weaponise religion. No faith thrives on pressure; real faith is offered, not imposed.
Respect lifelong practice over last-minute confusion. Decades of cultivation outweigh a frail moment.
Steady your own mind first. The dying absorb the emotional weather; a calm presence helps more than frantic chanting.
Forgive sooner than you feel ready. Forgiveness is not approval; it is laying down a weight.
Remember intention. The quality of the heart shapes the journey on; love and clarity travel further than fear.
Closing
My mother died as she lived: quietly Buddhist, quietly steady. Her faith did not falter. Mine almost did.
This whole episode showed me what the Dhamma looks like off the cushion: not flawless serenity, but the courage to pause, breathe, and choose kindness even when the heart is shaking. If your family has wrestled with faith at a hard moment, may this story remind you that clarity and compassion can find their way back in.
TLDR: I’m not afraid of ghosts. I’m more afraid of how people, driven by ego and craving, hurt each other without realizing it. Through the Buddhist lens, ghosts aren’t monsters but mirrors of our own attachments, showing how unguarded minds can turn longing into suffering.
I’m writing this from a farmhouse in Lamphun, surrounded by a huge plantation.
No neighbours.
No traffic.
No people.
Just a three-storey house sitting wide open in the landscape, surrounded by trees and stillness. You can see everything through the exposed full length windows instead of walls in my room, the clouds, the trees, the vastness of sky.
No, this isn’t a ghost story. I’m not writing about some eerie encounter or haunted experience. I’m writing about ghosts, how they have actually enlightened me. Strange as it sounds, they’ve helped me understand more about people, suffering, and even myself.
Aren’t You Scared of Ghosts?
I posted a story on Instagram showing that house in the middle of nowhere.
One of my friends replied right away. Said it looked like a haunted house. “Aren’t you scared of ghosts out there?”
That made me laugh out loud.
No, I’m not afraid of ghosts. It’s people I’m more afraid of.
From what I’ve gathered after watching hundreds of horror movies, and trust me, I’ve seen enough to last a lifetime. Ghosts usually have a reason for sticking around. They’re not just hanging around for fun.
They want something. Closure, revenge, or peace. They’re usually grieving, confused, or holding onto something they couldn’t let go of when they were alive.
People on the other hand, hurt each other for less. For ego. For greed. For sport. For some pain they haven’t dealt with but expect others to carry. We damage people we love, and half the time we pretend it didn’t happen. Then we call it normal. That’s the part I don’t understand.
We act like there’s all the time in the world, then panic when life doesn’t turn out the way we hoped. That quiet kind of cruelty… that’s what really gets to me.
The Love for Horror Movies
“Psychopath: people who watch horror movies and sleep just fine afterwards.” My sister sent the meme to me with a laughing emoji. “That’s definitely you,” she said. And she’s not wrong.
I’ve always loved horror movies. And since I’ve never actually seen a ghost myself, what I understand about them mostly comes from films, especially Asian horror, which has its own way of telling these stories.
What stands out to me is that most of these ghosts have unfinished business. They’re not random. They’re focused. A lot of the best ones revolve around revenge or betrayal, and often the leading role looks innocent at first — but isn’t.
Ghosts are usually wandering spirits, lost and unaware of what even happened to them. So the strange things they do, moving objects, showing up in reflections, aren’t to be cruel. It’s more like confusion. But to us, it feels terrifying.
I feel for them.
Sometimes they don’t even know they’ve died. They’re still trying to live. Crying at night. Showing up where they used to belong. And somehow, we label that scary. But if you look closer, it’s just grief looking for somewhere to land.
Honestly, we’re not that different. Most of us walk around half-aware, too. Scrolling through our phones like mindless wandering spirits. Distracting ourselves from feelings we haven’t named. Wandering minds that lead to nowhere.
And the loyalty, don’t even get me started. There’s a kind of ghost that waits. By a window, under a tree, at the edge of someone’s memory. Still believing someone will come back. Still holding onto that one promise. It’s heartbreaking. But it’s also kind of beautiful.
I don’t want to meet a ghost. But if I did, I wouldn’t run. Not because I’m brave. Just because my Buddhist practices have shaped how I see things now.
Hungry Ghosts and Me
In Buddhism, there’s something called a Hungry ghosts (pretas) — one of the six lower realms we can be reborn into. They’re beings that exist because of deep craving. They have tiny mouths and giant bellies, always starving, never satisfied. It’s said they were greedy in their past life, and this is the result of their greed.
That idea stuck with me. But let’s not confuse them with the hell beings, the ones receiving punishment in hell and, as the Chinese folk religion believes, returning during the seventh lunar month for their “vacation”. Hungry ghosts are different. They’re around us all the time, not just for a month.
I’ve wondered if I was one of them in my past life. I can’t eat like most people anymore. I’m tube-fed. And weirdly, I’m okay with that. I sometimes joke about it, maybe it’s a sign I should practice more Dāna, be more generous with my time, energy, and charity.
Ghosts: The Dhamma Talk Listeners
Joke aside, I remembered vividly during a retreat in Pathum Thani, my teacher Phra Ajahn Den told us that ghosts often linger around temples. Not to haunt. They’re listening. They’re drawn to Dharma (Buddhist Teachings).
He said when we pour blessed water onto the roots of trees after getting blessed by the monks, it’s not just symbolic. The spirits are thirsty. They’re waiting for us to share whatever leftovers we had.
My teacher also taught me that whenever I feel a strange energy, especially in unfamiliar places like hotel rooms, I shouldn’t respond with fear.
Unlike what we see in ghost movies, monks aren’t meant to be exorcists or to destroy spirits. We don’t chant to chase them away or wipe them out. Instead, we send loving kindness. We try to offer them some sense of peace, a little comfort in their suffering.
So when I feel something unseen around me, I usually say, I see you. I don’t know how to help, but here’s my loving kindness. Take what you need, and I hope you’ll receive the Dharma teachings and be free from your suffering.
Maybe I sound strange. I’ve made peace with that. I would rather be someone who feels too much than someone who blocks it all out.
That changed something in me how it resonates with my buddhist practices to the core, even to ghosts.
I always find myself amazed by how my teacher teaches the Dharma, so simple, so real.
So, ghosts don’t scare me because they’re never just about fear. They’re about longing. They’re about spirits who weren’t ready to say goodbye. Some attachments cling so tightly that they cross with them to the other side, born of obsession, of chasing feelings that were never meant to be fulfilled.
And maybe that’s the real haunting. Most of the fear we feel, especially when it comes to ghosts or the unknown, isn’t about what’s out there. It’s just our own fear running wild.
So no, I’m not afraid of ghosts.
I’m more afraid of forgetting who I am. Of closing my heart. Of letting this life slip through my fingers without understanding what it meant to really live.
Wise Steps:
Live without regrets, so you won’t return to haunt others.
Avoid allowing your mind to drift like wandering spirits that distract you.
Keep your unwholesome thoughts guided to prevent unnecessary fears from taking hold.
TLDR: A decade’s search to release the mind from suffering through different Buddhist traditions. What I found was boundless love and wisdom across all through different dharma doors.
It has been more than a decade since I began practising seriously on the Buddhist path. I would like to share some reflections on this journey: what I have experienced and what I have observed.
Nothing here is meant as a criticism of any tradition, teacher, or practitioner. What you read is simply my own studies, observations and reflections. My interpretation of the different schools of Buddhism may not be accurate too, please use your discernment.
Seeking Liberation
Unlike many people I have met, I do not find human life particularly blissful. There are moments of joy, but ultimately, there is pain and separation from things and people we love or are familiar with.
We don’t even need to die to experience it. I was born into a family of four, but my parents are no longer with me, my sister is married with her own life, and friends from the past have drifted away. More people are living alone, with no one to care for them. Community and compassion are not easily found on Earth – something I had observed as a youth.
Though separation has always been painful for me, it was anger that led me to the Buddha’s teachings. Impatience runs in my family. I was quick to temper but also quick to forgive.
At one point, I felt betrayed by two close friends, and anger lingered in my body for several days. I noticed how it released toxic energy into my system and realised I needed a way to release it. By chance, I came across an online copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s book on anger, which drew me in.
Soon after, as if by divine intervention, I met a stranger at a vegan bakery. She was enrolled in a Tibetan Buddhism course, a seven-year program that progressed from basic teachings to tantra. She encouraged me to join, even though the course had already been running for a year.
Late one night, I came across a passage where he asked: “Where is the flower? Is it the petals, the leaves, or the stem?” At that moment, I caught my reflection in a large painting frame before me and realised I was no different from the flower. I could not find “me” anywhere.
That realisation shocked me. I went to bed filled with fear, not knowing who or what I was after having lived more than thirty years of my life.
The next morning, however, I awoke with a sense of profound release. A heavy burden seemed to fall away. I no longer felt the need to maintain an identity or construct a personality of likes and dislikes. I felt free.
I had already been meditating on my own for a few years, focusing on the breath. But that morning, my practice took on new depth.
I moved through the day with freedom and happiness for an entire week. I knew it would not last. I wanted to put all my efforts into realising the truth of freedom and bliss within deeply.
Study and Practice in Tibetan Buddhism
The Tibetan school I first encountered emphasised study. Meditation was mostly analytical, guided by texts and structured reflections. We also held weekend group discussions, though since I joined in the second year, I often studied alone.
I remain deeply grateful for this course. It provided step-by-step instructions for practice, especially helpful for beginners unsure of what to reflect upon. Yet I was not a disciplined student. I relished the freedom to explore and test my experiences rather than to simply follow.
I also struggled with doubt, which made it difficult to embrace the practice of guru devotion fully. While the purpose of guru devotion is profound, I observed that many practitioners focused more on the outer teacher than on the inner teacher – our intuition.
Only later did I begin to grasp the depth of Tibetan Buddhism and why wisdom is emphasised at the outset. After two years of study and a retreat at Kopan Monastery, I stepped away, drawn more strongly to meditation than to analysis.
I didn’t realise at the time I was already doing a lot of analytical meditation in daily life through observations of the Buddha’s teachings in daily life.
Though my time in Tibetan Buddhism was brief, the tradition left a deep impression. Thanks to my sincerity and some depth in mindfulness meditation, a lay teacher shared with me the pointing-out instructions from Dzogchen (from the Nyingma Tibetan school), which profoundly deepened my practice.
Later on, I learnt of the Six Yogas of Naropa through reading, and was impressed by how Tibetan Buddhism covers all states of consciousness to help a practitioner realise reality in one lifetime.
Lessons from Zen
Seeking more meditation practice, I joined a Korean Zen centre in Singapore that offered monthly retreats. The school followed Seung Sahn Sunim and worked with koans in the Lingji tradition.
A koan is a paradoxical phrase, riddle, or story used in Zen Buddhism as a tool for meditation to help practitioners transcend logical reasoning and achieve insight or enlightenment.
While koans are meant to halt overthinking, they had the opposite effect on me, stirring even more thought. Eventually, I gave up the koan practice and returned to simple breath meditation, focusing on the abdomen.
During this time, I experimented with fasting and practised prostrations. At the time, I didn’t fully understand their purpose except to watch my craving and physical discomfort. Only later did I realise that fasting heightens sensitivity to the space in the body, while prostrations help reduce the ego and cultivate devotion.
Entering a spiritual practice through devotion makes the path much sweeter. However, I was more keen on the intellect and did not focus so much on my heart.
The Zen centre’s teachings focused on pointing out the duality of thought and its failure in providing truth. Many found them difficult to follow. Some practitioners studied The Blue Cliff Record, a classic Zen koan text, trying to decipher the meaning of each koan.
What I appreciate most from Seung Sahn Sunim’s teachings is the practice of “don’t know mind”—resting in openness and uncertainty. Learning to trust not knowing remains one of the hardest yet most freeing lessons.
Later, I discovered that the Caodong school of Zen, popularised by Japanese master Dōgen and further explained by Taiwanese master Sheng Yen, might have suited me better. The practice of silent illumination, simply sitting with full awareness and letting body and mind fall away, parallels the Tibetan experience of luminosity of mind: an open awareness grounded in the present amid thoughts and feelings.
Returning to Early Teachings
When I could not find clear meditation guidance, I enrolled in a postgraduate diploma course at The Buddhist Library. There, I was introduced to the early Buddhist texts, the Pali Canon. For the first time, I could read the Buddha’s discourses directly rather than only through commentaries. While the texts must be approached with discernment, given their more than 2,500-year transmission, some of the discourses deeply moved me.
Later, I trained in the Mahasi Sayadaw tradition in Yangon, known for its detailed mindfulness practices, including extremely slow walking meditation. Though the slowness is often criticised, it helped me find the joy of walking mindfully (at a normal pace) even in busy Singapore streets, and carried that same presence into daily activities that don’t require thought.
I would note, however, that some schools may place strong emphasis on rigid methods, discouraging practitioners from exploring others. While methods are valuable at the start, the Buddha’s ultimate teaching is release: letting go. Clinging even to a method keeps the mind bound.
In my case, I practised one method which is usually dreaded by humans because it brings up fear and anxiety.
The Power of Death Meditation
Among all practices, the Buddha called mindfulness of death the “king of meditations,” just as the elephant’s footprint is the largest of all footprints.1
There are many ways to practice it: watching the impermanence of each breath, letting go completely with the out-breath, or visualising the decay of the body’s 32 parts. The breath practices help consciousness touch into the space in-between and also surrounding the breath. The 32 parts require deep awareness and the ability to mentally visualise each part in your body, and helps the practitioner realise that space in the body is unity, while the body parts are separate (though they work in unity).
At a two-month retreat in Thailand after the pandemic, I felt despondent, fearing I would never realise the Dharma in this life. Such was my yearning to realise the truth before I die.
Practising methods, watching the breath and daily reflections did not bring me any deep realisation of the truth. I did the 32 parts, but any realisation I had from this practice did not resonate with the depth of my heart.
My deepest fear is the fear of death, or the process of it. I also have a history of anxiety disorder. However, the fear of not realising the truth was deeper than the fear of death.
Desperate, and inspired by the Hindu saint Ramana Maharshi, I began imitating him by visualising my own death. I imagined my body dying in various situations and ceasing to breathe.
Fear arose at feelings, thoughts and consciousness dissolving into nothingness. Yet in that imagined death, a deep love and bliss arose in my chest. I realised that there is no such thing as nothingness! What’s left after the five aggregates (body, feelings, perception, thought and consciousness) dissolve, is something quite spiritual.
The Dalai Lama himself practices death meditation daily. He describes death as the greatest opportunity for liberation. It is at this pivotal moment one finds out the depth of one’s practice in life.
Toward a Unified Understanding
Over time, I realised that all Buddhist traditions, and indeed all religions, ultimately point us toward the same truth: the nature of our minds.2
From my experience, the three traditions have these characteristics that stood out to me (it might be different for each person).
The Theravāda tradition emphasises wisdom, the Mahayana school emphasises compassion, while Tibetan Buddhism unites the two through devotion (love) and analysis. Compassion, in the Mahayana and Tibetan traditions, is not separate from love. It is unconditional love grounded in wisdom.
The four Brahmavihāras—metta, karuna, mudita, and uppekha—taught in early Buddhism are also not separate qualities but a unified expression of the same boundless love. Equanimity, which is one of the qualities of awakening, is not a cold-hearted detachment. It contains compassion for all, while having the wisdom to know how one can, or can’t help oneself and others.
Boundless compassion comes from the wisdom of letting go and walking through fear with trust – indeed it is hard to trust ‘not knowing’ and to stay with deeply difficult emotions such as anxiety, to be open to it, and watch it cease.
My deepest understanding of the practice today is that when compassion arises with an open heart, we can stay with painful feelings without rejection or suppression – it can still be difficult and requires courage and trust, but something we can apply repeatedly until we can accept suffering and not be caught in it.
A friend once reminded me: practice leads not to the end of painful feelings, but to the end of suffering.
Perhaps it is in embracing the human experience fully, without avoidance or obsession, that one truly becomes human, and in doing so, transcends the human condition.
Wise steps:
If you are new on the path, be open-minded. There is something you can learn from each tradition because ultimately they all lead to awakening, including other spiritual paths.
Follow your heart, even though in this world, we have been taught not to trust it. Balanced it with wisdom. The heart contains intuition, and can lead us to places we need to be, not want to be.
1 Please note that there are different meditations for different mind states and personalities. Death meditation is not suitable for everyone, especially for those feeling depressed or anxious. I have anxieties over death, and it was with great determination and despondency for not being close to the truth (awakening) that I practised it.
2 The statement is based on my own research, reading and practice of different Buddhist traditions as well as other religions. Every religion has a public face and a less known side where the teachings and practice include meditation, recollection, and reflection. Most people are familiar with the public side, not the deeper side of religions.
TLDR: A dying practitioner reflects on life and the path. The mind states that arises and how we can cope better.
Opening Reflections by Sylvia Bay
A good friend, Amanda Quek, penned a thoughtful, short note some years back, on how a constant reflection on mortality is very helpful to our efforts to keep the mind pure while not giving in to unwholesome mental habits.
Amanda was dying from cancer then, but even though her physical condition could be debilitating, she never lost faith and remained a determined and conscientious Dhamma practitioner to the end in November 2020.
Amanda remains an inspiring figure for friends and is fondly remembered for her wise sharing. HOL is releasing this reflection on the 5th anniversary of her death. May Sister Amanda be well and happy wherever she has been reborn.
From Amanda to Dhamma Friends On The Path
Hi friends, thanks so much for visiting.
Here’s my 1-cent worth of insight on the catalytic role of mortality on the practice.
Once the notion of mortality is firmly ingrained in our minds, it will rewire our mind’s operating system. We will know this when we start to ask what we should do to live a meaningful life and adjust our priorities accordingly.
We will also know that kusala mental states are beginning to take less effort to arise, they are becoming stronger when arisen and they are staying around more frequently, whereas akusala ones are starting to fade gradually into the background.
We can then set aside the constant reflection of mortality to just focus on developing those kusala mental states (gratitude, contentment, acceptance, profound joy of having found a truly meaningful life and living it, Brahmaviharas, etc.)
Reflection of mortality is just a spark plug to get the Dhamma mind up and running. Our mind will rebel if we were to constantly remind it of mortality because we are programmed to seek pleasure and avoid pain after all. We can still have sensual pleasures, but in small doses or moderation, without attachment or indulgence. Naturally, our mind will choose to behave like this after a certain level of practice.
Sometimes we might find that the kusala mental states are starting to lose steam (i.e., complacency kicks in, things are taken for granted, etc.).
This is the time to bring back the reflection of mortality to stop the decline and increase the momentum of our practice on the kusala mental states. When things are on track, reflection of mortality can once again take a back seat.
This can happen several times. Thus, reflection of mortality is like a whip – use it to get the mind moving in the right direction and when the mind begins to slacken.
Hopefully, this makes sense for you and it could be useful for you. Thank you so much for being my kalyana-mitta! May you step on the shore of Deathlessness in this lifetime! 🙏🙏🙏😊
TLDR: Misconceptions about Buddhism left me embarrassed, especially when questioned by others. Eventually, this discomfort inspired me to study deeper and proudly embrace my beliefs.
Editor’s Note: Some facts have been changed so as not to identify the writer’s educational background
Feeling Out of Place
Growing up Buddhist in a Singapore mission school wasn’t always easy. I clearly remember the puzzled looks when classmates caught a whiff of incense on my uniform, or when someone sarcastically asked if kamma was another god we prayed to.
“If your god is so great, why did he (the Buddha) die in his 80s and not live forever?” my close friends would often quiz me.
It felt awkward and isolating. I was frequently misunderstood, out of place, and even embarrassed. To them, my beliefs seemed outdated and strange.
To me, it was painful. I wanted desperately to fit in, but the mission school’s religion didn’t resonate with my scientific mind. I couldn’t put aside my thirst for knowledge and science for beliefs that, in my opinion, didn’t align with historical records or evolutionary science.
Misunderstandings and Misconceptions
Things became even harder when my friends started converting to the school’s predominant faith. Suddenly, Buddhism became an easy target. We were viewed as easy converts compared to followers of other faiths. Why? Most Buddhists were born into the religion with little to no access to religious texts. Growing up, I even thought the Buddha was from China.
Some whispered that I worshipped demons or idols, pointing to the statues on our family altar. Each comment felt like a punch. Why couldn’t they understand? But on a deeper level, I started asking myself why I didn’t understand my own faith better.
One memory stands out vividly: at my grandmother’s funeral, cousins of another faith asked me, “What are they chanting for Ah Mah? Does she even understand it? Do you? This is such a waste of time.”
I froze. I didn’t have an answer. Shame crept in—a sense of inadequacy, confusion, and helplessness.
I followed the rituals mindlessly, bowing and standing endlessly without any clue what I was supposed to chant or why I was bowing so many times.
Discovering the Real Meaning
But something powerful happened then. Those uncomfortable moments became the catalyst for diving deeper into Buddhism.
I began researching, reading, and practising sincerely. What is Dhamma? How could I find it?
I learned the true meaning behind altar offerings. Flowers symbolise impermanence, lights represent wisdom, and water stands for purity. They weren’t offered for the Buddha to consume; they were reminders for me and everyone who encountered them.
I realised how meaningful each ritual truly was. Gradually, understanding replaced embarrassment, and quiet pride took root in my heart.
I started enthusiastically sharing my newfound knowledge with relatives who had long been Buddhists, hoping to nurture greater pride in our shared identity. When there is knowledge, we can genuinely connect the Dhamma to our everyday experiences.
I was finally able to confidently tell my mocking friends about the Buddha and explain why he was genuinely THE OG enlightened LEGEND and not just a myth or legend.
Facing Loss With Confidence
Years later, when Ah Kong passed away, my perspective had completely changed. At his deathbed, I felt no fear of death. I gently chanted the Metta Sutta to him. It was a stark contrast to the sense of dread I’d felt when Ah Mah passed away.
At Ah Kong’s funeral, I participated wholeheartedly in the chants and rituals. I even managed to arrange for a kind Bhante (monastic) from Sri Lanka Ramaya to share a Dhamma talk beside Ah Kong’s coffin.
Perhaps it was too late for Ah Kong to hear the talk if he had already been reborn, but for my relatives, it was a powerful reminder that we too would pass away—and to urgently live our lives skilfully.
This time, when someone asked me questions about the Dhamma, I could confidently share the meaning behind our practices. There was no more shame—only clarity and gentle certainty.
We chanted not just for Ah Kong, but also to share merits with him and other departed beings. I burned incense, reminding myself that the fragrance of Dhamma spreads through our body, speech, and mind. I lit candles, reminding myself to illuminate my mind with wisdom instead of defilements.
It was a turning point. Buddhism stopped being a label I wanted to hide and became a truth I proudly embraced.
Encouragement for Those Still Struggling
If you’re currently feeling ashamed or hesitant about your Buddhist identity, I want you to know you’re not alone. Often, shame arises from uncertainty from not fully understanding our beliefs, and from feeling isolated without a supportive community.
My experience taught me that every question and every challenge is an invitation to dive deeper into the Dhamma.
Read more. Practice more. Find community support. As your understanding grows, confidence naturally follows.
It’s funny, really, how the shame I once felt eventually pushed me closer to the Dhamma, until I no longer doubted myself or my beliefs.
Today, I say proudly and joyfully, without hesitation:
“I’m a Buddhist.”
And it feels wonderful.
May you grow joyfully on your path.
Wise Steps:
Turn challenging questions into opportunities to learn, much like how my friends’ mockery encouraged me to truly understand the Buddha’s teachings.
Engage actively in rituals by learning their symbolic meanings; when I learned that flowers represent impermanence, rituals suddenly became meaningful instead of mindless.
Share your knowledge with others to strengthen your community’s pride; as I did with my relatives, it can help others rediscover their faith too
