The Quiet Becoming of an Aspiring Queer Buddhist Writer
I never considered myself a writer, let alone a writer who writes about Buddhist Dharma. I suppose most of us have unique talents when it comes to analysing and understanding the Dharma.
Growing up, I struggled with academics, but excelled in asking the question "why." I possessed a strong sense of skepticism and curiosity that drove me.
When I wrote my first book, 108 Places to See Before Nirvana, I was trying to find a way to sustain my life while staying close to Buddhism.
Shortly after publishing, I was diagnosed with cancer. Suddenly, my goal of sustaining my livelihood became a fight for survival.
I spent a year living in a bubble, avoiding crowded places to protect my compromised immune system.
Reflecting on My Cancer Journey
During my cancer treatment, I spent a lot of time in my room writing about how I applied Dharma knowledge to overcome my illness.
The blog began with a dialogue with the cancer tumor, starting with the opening line in every blog entry, “Dear Tumor” allowed me to view my condition from a different perspective. I chronicled my entire journey, all the way up to my last day of chemo and radiotherapy.
Looking back, I'm not entirely sure why I began my blog. At first, I intended to keep my loved ones informed about my condition so they wouldn't fret (especially since I was too drained to speak to anyone in my vulnerable state). But writing turned out to be therapeutic.
I reflected on my experiences and how they were intertwined with Dharma. Writing helped me to release my emotions and validate my experiences.
Now, 10 years into remission, I view the blog as a personal keepsake and inheritance that I gained from my cancer treatments.
An example of one of my blog posts
How Sharing My Story Inspired Others
Though i was unsure if my writing would resonate with readers, I felt compelled to share.
After publishing my blog, I received messages from many who applauded my state of mind and found inspiration in my experiences.
Even those who didn't have cancer could relate to my Dhamma reflections, showcasing the beauty of it., The Dhamma can offer guidance and support in any situation.
It would be wonderful if young students could learn from the Dharma's wisdom, not necessarily as a religious doctrine, but as a syllabus for navigating life's challenges.
Curveballs
Life has a way of throwing curveballs (which we all are aware of from the First Noble Truth), but I've learned to make the best of them.
In fact, I even created a new recipe for lemon tea out of the lemons life gave me. This analogy came to me while writing my second book, Life I've Learned as Monk Key, which describes my journey to cancer recovery after that difficult year.
Monk Key 😏 Get it?
Tragedy didn’t stop there. Shortly within a year after my treatments, I lost several loved ones, including a close friend and my father. This was followed by my chum’s father who suffered from the same cancer as me.
My struggles with guilt and grief for my father are documented in an article I wrote for Handful of Leaves.
I rented a small hut in Koh Phangan to heal, and somehow I found myself opening up my laptop and starting to write again.
Although my book, Monk Key, primarily details my battle with cancer, I also dedicated a chapter to my father and the other loved ones whom I lost in that challenging year.
Writing has now become my sanctuary, and at first, I wrote Monk Key to express my gratitude to those who supported me during my illness.
Little did I know, it also helped me with confronting my grief.
Sharing Stories: A Quiet Turning Point
After complications from radiation therapy on my throat, I was diagnosed with aspiration — a condition that makes swallowing difficult, where food sometimes slips into the lungs instead of the stomach. It changed everything. Eating, once so natural, became a daily risk. In the midst of this, I wrote another book: Between My Throat and These Truths — a deeply personal exploration of what it means to live when something so essential is no longer available.
Each paragraph in that book begins with the phrase, “Truth be told.” It became my way of peeling back the layers, of facing each quiet suffering with honesty. A ritual of acknowledgement — not just of pain, but of resilience too. Through writing, I found the courage to name what I was going through, one truth at a time.
I never set out to write for fame or fortune. As someone who walks the path of Buddhism, I’ve always felt that storytelling isn't about spotlight or success — it’s about offering a piece of yourself, with the hope that someone, somewhere, feels seen in your words.
Of course, it would be lovely to have more readers. But that’s not the heart of it. What I truly want is to share my life — not polished, not perfect — in a way that helps others shift their own lens, even just a little. Writing, for me, has been a mirror. Sometimes a messy one, but always honest. And in that honesty, I’ve found small moments of clarity. Insight. Even healing.
Now, sitting in Chiang Mai, with my new book The Buddha and the Bat finally complete, I’ve begun asking myself — could this be a new chapter? A new identity? A queer Buddhist writer… not just in theory, but in truth.
And then the doubts creep in. Who am I to write? My grammar stumbles. I didn’t study this. Isn’t writing for the professionals?
But here's what I’ve learned: you don’t need perfect grammar to speak your truth. You don’t need a title to tell a story. What you need is the courage to begin — to show up as you are, and to keep going.
When we write not to impress, but to connect, our words soften. They become real. They carry authenticity, they build bridges, and they give us perspective — both for ourselves and for those reading.
So no, I won’t say I’m not a writer anymore. I’m a designer and a writer. I’m a seeker and a storyteller. I carry both doubt and devotion. And that’s enough.
It’s not too late. It’s not too old. It’s never the wrong time to start stepping into a side of you that’s been waiting to be seen — and maybe, just maybe, waiting to shine.
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