I’ve realised that I can’t really imagine what the next ten years will look like. When I was heading towards my 30th, I used to have conversations with Jelai about the next big step, like we always do. We talked about the challenges we were facing and the quiet pressure to keep moving forward.

A few days before my 40th this April, I made a deliberate pause. I spent weeks looking back at the last decade. The last time I remember stopping to take stock that way was during those conversations with my closest friend. I found myself asking questions. What actually happened in between? Can I remember everything clearly, or only the highlights? Will I start forgetting more things as I age? And if I’m honest with myself, am I at peace with how I spent those ten years?

Ten years can really slip by without us noticing.

When asked about settling down, what does it really mean?

I sometimes hear from people who are raising kids that there’s barely time for anything else. I’m often asked when I’m going to get married or “settle down,” as if there’s only one right way to live, settling down as married with a family. Psst, I am still going to get married, just so you know. But why is “settling down” the phrase given to those who transition from single to married? What does “settling down” really signify? Contentment? Stability? Responsibility? Do these not exist regardless of one’s status?

Is life more about obedience and trust, and if so, doesn’t doing just those two things already make life an endless adventure? We’re all nowhere near settling down. Even married people are in an ongoing adventure. The questions come from a place of concern and for some reason I don’t feel pressured, but I would say I am bombarded with noise. Sometimes, not feeling internally influenced by that pressure gives me immense gratitude. I’d rather have people ask me more about other things that are personal and attuned to my current state rather than assume I am doomed and not okay with where my civil status is. These questions and comments I received normally make me have conversations with God more deeply about life and relationships. I will say that the promises of God remain and there is peace knowing this is an area of my life that God gave his first promise.

Work has marked time in quieter ways.

I’ve met colleagues who speak openly about retirement, two years away, five years away. They sound ready, satisfied with the roles they’ve played and the season they’re about to close. I reflect on whether there were things I should aspire to be more at work, to be in a certain position or higher roles. I’ve also met colleagues fresh from university, or much younger friends just beginning to define their ladders, looking ahead with the same nervous excitement I remember from ten or fifteen years ago. I find myself wondering whether I should be more assertive or continue adapting as industries shift. Somewhere between those two ends of the timeline, I’ve been returning more to prayer than planning. I’ve been asking God to make my professional path clearer.

I’ve always been conscious of my direction, yet there are still things I want to experience and jump into. Like a puzzle, I keep placing every piece I can find in my career, hoping the picture becomes more recognisable and meaningful over time. I find myself intentionally remembering the advice I received from managers and seniors, and just as intentionally considering how I might respond whenever someone younger asks me about their profession.

Relationships have changed as I’ve lived longer.

I’ve been watching people and relationships evolve. Some are deepening, some drifting, some quietly changing shape. There are relationships I keep nudging, wanting the other person to know that I’m serious about keeping them. Others, I know I’m allowing to pass by. Having lived a little longer now and having gathered many circles of people, I find myself reflecting on who they have been in my life and how I am in their lives. There are also moments when I find myself unable to fully sit and be present because I don’t know if I can carry the weight of how the relationships are going or the pain and suffering of those around me. Ever since my dad passed away, I’ve become acutely aware of how people can leave unexpectedly, return randomly, and arrive beautifully.

When a familiar feeling comes and I recognise it as good, I welcome it with anticipation and celebration. When it feels heavy or painful, I brace myself. Sometimes I retreat and ask God to keep it at a distance a little longer. And when a feeling is unfamiliar, I tend to overthink, lingering in that anxious space where I can’t quite step forward or back, only observing what might happen until time has quietly passed. More than any other area of my life, this is what consumes my prayer time with God. I am not hoping for ideal outcomes although I struggle not to, but praying for steadiness in fear, wisdom as understanding grows, and grace to respond well.

Somewhere along the way, faith and dream began returning.

In my 20s, I set a goal to write a book about Faith and Dream. Back then, I was full of big hopes, the kind that make you believe you can change the world. The vision of bridging people of different races and nationalities felt tangible and world‑changing. Every part of the plan seemed sensible, and the path felt clear. “Follow your passion” was the message everywhere — advertisements, shows, conversations. My generation wholeheartedly took it on. Looking back now, I see how incomplete that advice can be for what life actually asks of us. I feel for all the millennials out there. I’m often amazed at how easily my young heart was convinced.

I truly feel grateful when I reflected on the last ten years. Grateful for the years themselves, for both good and poor decisions, and for the turns I didn’t plan for or anxiously prepare myself to face. Some directions I chose deliberately. Others unfolded quietly along the way. Either way, they brought me here. As cliché as it sounds, millennials perhaps should have been told more clearly that life will still be okay, whatever path we might end up taking. If I pause long enough to notice it, life is, in many ways, deeply satisfying.

Over the past six months, the words Faith and Dream have been returning to me again. Somehow, “dream” has resurfaced not as a destination, but as a way of moving through life. I’m beginning to wonder if fulfilling a dream isn’t a single moment at the end of a path, but something that unfolds across places and seasons. You don’t always see it coming, but when it appears, there’s a quiet sense of, Yes, this mattered. This was part of my dream. Dream doesn’t feel like a shooting star that happens once, but like fireflies I get to hold, one at a time, in the dark.

Faith feels even more compelling now. I almost forgot that it’s not only something to talk about or reflect on but something to live out. I remember one night when I felt God say, Be faithful, Olive. I often say that God is faithful, and He is. But I didn’t expect that faithfulness would also be asked of me. To be faithful on the path He has placed me on, whatever this path may be, even when I cannot see far ahead. I only have a small light for the next step to take.

My life felt full in every sense during the ten years. I pushed forward in the Australian workforce, finding my place within teams and projects, experiencing favour, recognition, indifference, and at times, quiet snub. I had family and friends in the Philippines, while my circle in Australia continued to grow. I volunteered at church, remained present in services and activities, held onto my hobbies, and practised what I know was good rest. I carried a long list of things I wanted to do, often trying to do them all at once, as if time were always running out and every year needed to be maximised.

Somewhere along the way, I realised I had drifted from being faithful in my walk with God and had let go of the dreams because I have become too afraid to hold onto them anymore. I missed the kind of walk where it’s just God and me, talking about the dreams He has placed in me, where the next step is received rather than forced. Many of my steps, honestly, were taken in vain.

As I open the curtain of my forties, it feels as though God gently reminded me first of His immense presence, consistently and daily over the past six months. Drawing me back to what I longed for before and perhaps towards what He is laying before me in the years ahead. I don’t know if I’ll ever write that book. But Faith and Dream has, in so many ways, already been the theme of my last decade.

I’m in Toyama, Japan as I write this, travelling alone, and learning again what it means to live with faith and to keep dreaming.