In my journey through life, if there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s this: we don’t always need to share blood to share destiny. I was raised not by the people who gave me life, but by the people who gave me love. My adoptive parents were my very first forge—where I, a raw soul, was shaped by iron hearts into someone who could endure, love deeply, and live with meaning.

We didn’t grow up in luxury. Life was simple. Modest. But our home was rich with values—quiet ones, the kind that speak not through words but through action.

My father was the calm in every storm. A government employee by day and a guitarist by night, he carried not only the weight of two jobs but the deeper responsibility of caring for a wife who required dialysis twice a week, for more than 15 years. And he never left her side. He could have walked away. But he didn’t. He chose to stay. Through every hospital visit, every struggle, every uncertain day—he was there.

He was not a man of many words, nor did he raise his voice often. But when he did, we knew it mattered. His quiet strength became the compass of my life. Even when he grew older, he still rode his motorcycle 40 kilometer back and forth to play for his band, driven not only by money, but mainly by devotion—to music, to his purpose, and to his family. From him, I learned what it means to be loyal, responsible, patient, humble, consistent, and above all—honorable.

And my mother—my iron lady—she was strength cloaked in gentleness.

She battled kidney failure with a courage that still leaves me in awe. Dialysis twice a week for over 15 years became her routine, her battlefield. Do you know how painful dialysis is? Those thick needles piercing her fragile skin—one in her arm, one in her groin. Sometimes, I couldn’t even bring myself to look. I could only hold back tears watching her breathe through the pain, silently enduring what most would crumble under.

And when I once asked her, “Why keep fighting?”, she answered with a strength that only mothers understand:

“It is for you guys, my children.”

She knew her time was limited. But instead of retreating, she gave everything. Her love, her energy, her presence. She still cooked. She still cleaned. She still made sure we were okay. She loved through action, not complaint.

She came from a wealthy family. She didn’t have to live a hard life for real. But she chose my father—a man of humble background—and never looked back. If that wasn’t love, I don’t know what is. She chose simplicity. She chose sacrifice. And through it all, she chose us.

From her, I inherited resilience, devotion, inner strength, selflessness, and grace.

Together, my parents were iron—not because they were perfect, but because they were willing to stand in the fire of life and still choose love. Still choose family. Still choose to show up, day after day.

This was the first forge. The beginning of everything. And from them, I learned how to hold steady—even when life shakes you to the core.

Iron Shaped Iron: The Boss Who Sparked My Fire

The second “iron” who shaped me wasn’t the kind who coddled or softened the blow. She was sharp, loud with purpose, and fierce in her convictions. And at that time in my life, she was exactly the fire I needed to burn away the parts of me that weren’t serving my future.

Before I met her, I was not the person I am today. I was that employee—yes, that one. The one who gossiped, who talked more than she listened, who didn’t serve customers with the excellence they deserved. I was young, distracted, and unaware of the mirror I was creating for myself.

One day, I was transferred to another location—not as a reward, but as a consequence of my own actions. And what did I do? I got mad. I chose to resign, carrying with me a heavy mix of pride and denial. But in truth, I had no right to be angry. The fault was mine.

Not long after, I joined another FMCG agency as a salesperson. It was here that I met her—my former boss who became my next forge. She didn’t try to be everyone’s friend. She was bold, high-energy, driven by results and accountability. And I’ll never forget the moment she stood in front of the entire sales team and asked:

“Who wants to fight along with me?”

That sentence hit me like lightning. Something inside of me snapped into focus. My blood boiled—but not with rebellion this time. With readiness. With hunger. I knew I wanted to be one of the people who stood up and showed up.

From that day forward, I changed.

I sat in the front row during every sales meeting. I led the reading of “The 10 Sales Commitments” with pride and clarity. I was the one who raised her hand to answer questions, to offer insights, to show that I was no longer just an employee—I was becoming a contributor.

And the results?

Within six months, I became one of the top performers. I was selected as the sole salesperson on duty when our President Director and his team visited the traditional market—a moment of deep honour and quiet validation.

I had gone from the gossiper to the achiever, and it was all sparked by someone who dared to ask the question that demanded the warrior in me to rise:

“Who wants to fight along with me?”

She didn’t just lead. She challenged. She modelled bravery, discipline, and clarity of mission. And she made me realize that leadership is not about comfort—it’s about calling others into greatness, even if it burns on the way there.

To this day, I carry her fire. And I am grateful.

The Iron Lady in Retail: Boldness Wrapped in Unexpected Compassion

My next iron came in the form of a woman who looked like she stepped straight out of a military lineup. Tall, bold, and fierce — when she walked into a room, the air shifted. Her presence alone commanded respect. In our retail world, where discipline and execution were everything, she led our morning briefings like a general. She would speak with clarity and conviction, commanding the floor with both structure and precision. Everyone knew what to do — not out of fear, but out of the clarity she brought.

To many, she looked intimidating. But iron is not only about sharpness — it’s also about strength in stillness. And I learned that one quiet day, when I approached her with a deeply personal crisis.

I expected a cold, procedural response. Instead, she looked me in the eye and said gently but firmly,
“Lia, you may need to make a life-changing decision.”

Those words still echo in me.

When I could no longer hold back my emotions and burst into tears, she didn’t push me away. She didn’t brush me off. Instead, this iron woman who had terrified many, chose to soften. She stood by me, calmed me down, and allowed space for my breakdown — without judgment.

That moment revealed to me that true leadership isn’t just about presence and discipline. It’s about emotional wisdom.
That iron is not only forged in fire — sometimes, it shapes quietly, in compassion.

From her, I learned that strength and softness can coexist — that commanding respect does not require silencing emotion but rather knowing when to stand tall and when to kneel beside someone in their pain.

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The Silent Catalyst: A Leader Who Lit the Fire in Me

Some people walk into your life not to stay forever, but to ignite something powerful within you. This next “iron” in my journey didn’t come with softness or soothing words. In fact, quite the opposite — his energy was intense, his expectations high, his presence sharp like steel. He didn’t coddle me. He pushed me. He challenged me. And in doing so, he woke me up.

This iron didn’t need to shout to make an impact — though his fire could blaze when it needed to. He was strategic, demanding, fiercely intelligent, often intense. I often found myself trying to keep up with his pace, decode his expectations, and prove — not just to him, but to myself — that I could thrive under that level of pressure. And I did.

In truth, he probably doesn’t even realize how much of a turning point he became in my life.
He reminded me of the kind of leader I could become — sharp, resilient, focused, grounded in values.
He didn’t hand me strength — he mirrored it. Through him, I saw the parts of myself I had long buried: the discipline, the clarity, the decisiveness, the fearlessness.

He might never ask, “Was this chapter about me?” And that’s okay. Because this story isn’t about recognition. It’s about the unspoken way one soul can sharpen another.

Not through comfort, but through challenge.
Not through promises, but through presence.
Not through holding my hand, but by holding the bar high.

And maybe that’s what iron does best. It doesn’t make things easy — it makes them stronger.

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Forged in Fire, Polished by Grace

Each of these “irons” in my life — from my parents to the bold leaders I’ve met along the way — came with their own edge. Some taught me through gentleness, others through pressure. Some loved me openly, others challenged me in silence. But each of them, in their own way, sharpened me.

I am not who I am today because I had it easy.
I am who I am because I was forged — through storms, friction, disappointment, and unexpected grace.
And these people… these irons… were part of that divine blacksmithing.

They didn’t walk ahead of me to show me the way, nor did they walk behind me to push me forward.
They walked beside me, in key chapters of my journey, holding mirrors I wasn’t ready to see — but needed to.

If you’ve been shaped by an “iron” in your life, you’ll know what I mean.
You may not always love the process, but one day, when you stand stronger, clearer, and more grounded — you’ll be grateful.

So this page is not just my tribute.
It’s a reminder: Sometimes the people who challenge us the most are the ones who awaken the best in us.

Thank you to all the iron-souled humans who walked into my life — knowingly or not.
You didn’t just shape me.
You helped me remember who I truly am.

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Update: From Fire to Foundation

Time changes things—but it also reveals things. And as I look back on the Iron figures who have shaped me, I realize something else: I am no longer just shaped by iron—I’ve become it.

The old version of me? She chased timelines, tried to meet expectations that weren’t truly hers. She ran from pressure, bent under fear, and measured herself by how fast she could move forward.

But today, I no longer move because I’m told to.
I move when it feels true.
I rise not because I fear falling—but because peace now lives inside of me.

Even in the face of critical challenges, even with uncertainty clouding the path ahead—I no longer rush. I no longer cling. I’ve stopped forcing clarity from chaos. Instead, I breathe. I listen. I trust.

I refuse to take action from fear or pressure. Because I’ve learned: when you choose peace, the outcome transforms. And the people meant to walk with you? They don’t come through panic. They come through alignment.

This isn’t the end of the Iron journey. It’s just the next forging.

I am still being refined.
But now—I burn with my own fire.

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This story is a part of my personal journey. Please do not copy or reproduce any part of it without permission. Sharing is welcome with proper credit and a link to this blog