When my first child was born in 2023, I was over the moon. I was also completely lost.

As an expectant father, I prepared for childbirth by learning how to support my wife during her pregnancy and labour. I knew what to say and the small things that might bring her comfort – though how well I did is another matter. 

Yet, nothing in the books I read or the prenatal classes I attended prepared me for my new identity as a father.

The reality of parenthood hit me when I held my son for the first time. I felt overwhelming love, but I did not know how to be a father.

My child was born at 37 weeks, three weeks before the estimated 40-week due date. At that point, we were still renovating our flat, so for his first night, I hurriedly bought a Moses basket – a woven basket without legs for newborns to sleep. 

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Then came a steep learning curve as I tried to figure out how to soothe a crying newborn while navigating conflicting advice from family, friends and parenting books.

Sleep deprivation clouded my mind. Before long, I was approaching caregiving like a checklist, focusing on helping my wife through early motherhood. 

When I realised our son was more easily soothed by my wife, I instinctively stepped aside. What mattered to me was the outcome: that he was fed, comforted and healthy.

However, I soon realised I was missing something important. 

I was not building a relationship with my child. 

THE TRADITIONAL EXPECTATIONS OF A FATHER

Growing up, my father was present in the way that many fathers in his generation were. He was a provider and disciplinarian, somewhat distant but dependable.

Men were expected to be breadwinners, while women were caregivers. These expectations emerged in an era when most families had a single income and mothers often had support from extended family.

Today, families look different – with dual-income streams and little help beyond hiring a domestic worker or what the couple can arrange themselves.

In this environment, it is increasingly important for fathers to embrace caregiving as part of their role. 

Research has consistently shown that children thrive with strong father-child bonds – one that differs from a mother-child bond.

A 2024 review of more than 180 studies, published in a leading psychology journal, found that paternal sensitivity – which is a father's ability to notice, interpret and respond to his child's needs – is linked to a more secure father-child attachment.

Children who feel securely attached to their parents tend to be better able to regulate their emotions, build trusting relationships and face the world with confidence.

Although many of us are influenced by how we were raised, we do not have to stick to being traditional father figures.

We simply need to set our own expectations of what kind of dads we want to be.

My father once admitted that he did not know how to carry a baby when my son was born, but he learnt how to be involved as a grandfather, and today, he enjoys carrying and playing with his grandchildren.

For me, I wanted to be a "present" father in my child's life. But being present means more than simply being in the room while my wife cares for him.

LEARNING TO BE A FATHER

What shaped me as an involved father were the conversations my wife and I have had through our parenting journey so far.

During her pregnancy, we talked about practical things such as how to achieve an unmedicated natural birth without an epidural. 

After our son arrived, those conversations shifted.

We started talking about our roles and expectations, how we could support each other and the kind of parents we wanted to be.

Looking back, I wish we had had those conversations earlier, before the exhaustion and sleep deprivation of caring for an infant swept over us.

We learned to adjust and work together as parents, out of love for our baby. Those early conversations were not always graceful, but we pushed through and they helped us grow.

It was through those conversations that I realised I had been approaching fatherhood from the perspective of supporting my wife rather than building a relationship with my son.

Caring for my child should not be something I do only because my wife needs a break. I should do it because I want to spend time with him and nurture our bond.

When our second child was born in 2025, we were no longer first-time parents figuring things out from scratch.

We still found ourselves stretched thin, but I was stepping in more naturally instead of waiting to be asked or leaving my wife to manage on her own when she felt overwhelmed. 

Rather than ticking off tasks, I treasured the time spent playing with my children and putting them to bed.

Those moments taught me that parenting is not simply about meeting needs.

Each moment I shared with my children was a privilege to love, care and bond with them.

THE EXPECTATIONS OF DADS TODAY

I have heard people saying too often that mothers need help and that men are good fathers for "helping" their wives. 

There is no ill intent behind those comments, but their underlying assumptions need to be addressed.

When a father changes a diaper, soothes his baby or does the night feed, he is seen as doing something unexpected and, therefore, commendable. 

Yet, when a mother does the same thing, she does not receive words of appreciation because it is expected.

This mindset persists in society and workplaces today, where fathers are still often viewed as secondary caregivers.

However, fatherhood should not be framed as "helping", because then, it implies doing something optional out of goodwill that is not your responsibility.

If we want involved fatherhood to become the norm, we need to support fathers accordingly – from the way we talk about their role in parenting to the larger changes in the system that give them the time and space to care for their kids.

When my first son was four months old, I attended the non-profit Centre for Fathering's I CAN Fathering Workshop. 

I remember clearly how other fathers spoke candidly about the challenges and joys of fatherhood.

It helped me define the kind of father I want to be and I saw clearly how my relationship with my father would affect my own parenting journey.

Ultimately, a supportive "village" – consisting of extended family, workplaces, community groups and educational institutions – plays an important role in enabling fathers to be present in their children's lives.

It took me the past three years, through many challenges in marriage and parenthood, to fully appreciate this. I credit my wife, who continually notices and reminds me of the role I play.

Recently, at a parent-teacher meeting, I experienced a proud-dad moment when I learnt how my older child brings so much joy to his teachers through the way he relates to others, communicates and approaches learning. 

At home, watching my children play with one another affectionately also warms my heart and makes me smile.

I may have been a father for only a few years, but one day, I hope my son grows up knowing what it means to be present to others – by learning to set aside the distractions of yesterday and tomorrow to fully cherish the people around him. 

And if he becomes a father someday, I hope he carries that lesson with him. 

More importantly, I hope he'll grow up in a generation where fathers are present not because they were told to be, but because they genuinely would not have it any other way. 

Xander Ong is the chief executive officer of the Centre for Fathering and a father of two young children.

When we talk about making mistakes when saving for retirement, most people probably imagine something dramatic.

Getting scammed out of your life savings. Losing money in a stock market crash. Signing up for something you did not fully understand because a salesperson dressed in a smart-looking suit told you it was "safe".

But in my view, some of the biggest retirement planning mistakes usually start small and go unnoticed. 

I’ve seen this happen to many of my older peers whom I used to think were set for a comfortable retirement because they were earning more than me, but are now in their fifties and fretting about not having enough.

Their missteps are not uncommon. Today, many Singaporeans still make the same mistakes – starting too late, chasing unrealistic returns, neglecting their Central Provident Fund (CPF) in retirement planning, or over-relying for financial advice on someone who is selling them products.

By the time the consequences show up, it may already be 10, 20 or 30 years later, when your working years are behind you and there is no way to undo your mistakes.

Just last month, a commentary by Christopher Tan, the chief executive officer of wealth advisory firm Providend, struck a nerve with many people, myself included.

In his May 22 commentary, he highlighted a worrying trend of Singaporeans being encouraged to meet the Basic Retirement Sum in their CPF accounts and invest the balance that could otherwise have gone towards the Full Retirement Sum into an investment-linked policy (ILP). 

The sales pitch was that the combination of CPF Life payouts and the ILP would ultimately provide a higher level of retirement income.

As this practice came to light, the issue drew wider scrutiny after some advisers were found to be marketing ILPs as "capital guaranteed upon death". 

The Monetary Authority of Singapore (MAS) and the Life Insurance Association Singapore subsequently said such descriptions were misleading because ILPs are not capital-guaranteed products. 

This incident, along with watching the friends around me fret about their impending retirements, shows how many Singaporeans remain uncertain about how to prepare for their retirement

So, what does it actually mean to prepare well for one's senior years?

THE DANGERS OF NOT PREPARING FOR RETIREMENT EARLY

When we first start working, it's easy to forget about retirement because it seems like a distant prospect. 

Some may also assume that when they've worked for more years, they can easily save enough for their retirement because of their increasing salary. 

However, waiting too long to start saving and investing for retirement is, in my opinion, the most expensive mistake anyone can make.

When you start late, you give the benefits of compound interest less time to work. A person who invests S$500 (US$387) a month from age 30 to 65 would have contributed S$210,000 in capital. 

At a 5 per cent annual return over 35 years, that could grow to more than S$560,000 before fees and taxes. 

Now compare this with someone who starts investing at age 45 and invests the same S$500 a month until age 65. In total, they would have invested S$120,000. However, at the same annual return rate, they end up with about S$206,000.

Essentially, your money has less time to grow. 

Of course, not all investments promise fixed annual interest rates with no risks.

The stock market can be a powerful wealth-building tool over long periods. But it does not move in a straight line. If you start investing late, you have less time to recover from downturns, less room to correct mistakes, and less flexibility if markets fall just as you retire.

WANTING UNREALISTIC RETURNS

Starting late is just the tip of the iceberg.

Late starters are often more vulnerable to aggressive sales pitches because if you realise you have not saved enough, a product projecting 8 to 12 per cent annual returns suddenly looks very tempting – even though these returns can often be unrealistic.

It's not just late starters who are tempted. It can be someone who compares their low-risk portfolio to a friend who made money from AI stocks or crypto, for example, or a retiree who simply feels their CPF Life payouts are not enough.

Ultimately, the need or want for larger returns clouds people's judgment – and this hunger for more sometimes causes them to forget what risks they're taking to try to get them.

This is how scammers exploit people's hope for a shortcut to grow their retirement savings. In 2025 alone, victims in Singapore lost about S$913.1 million, with investment scams accounting for the largest share of losses.

And it is not just outright scams that could jeopardise our retirement.

There are also legal, regulated products that may still be unsuitable if they are sold to the wrong person for the wrong purpose. 

For example, a high-cost investment product can still hurt your retirement plan, even if it is not a scam, with hidden withdrawal fees and no guaranteed returns. A market-linked investment product can also still disappoint even if the brochure was produced in full compliance with MAS guidance. 

With the clutter of information available, deciding how best to handle your retirement can be a challenge. While turning to a good financial adviser can be valuable, they are no substitute for your own understanding.

OVERLOOKING YOUR CPF

It is also important to know what you already have for retirement – especially your CPF, which should form the bedrock of your financial plans.

Admittedly, Singaporeans have a strange relationship with CPF.

Some neglect it. Some resent it. Some treat it as "not real money", while others compare it unfairly with investments that have completely different risks.

But the truth is, CPF is one of the most important pillars in retirement planning for Singaporeans.

That's because CPF Life is designed to provide monthly payouts no matter how long we live, even after our CPF savings are depleted, and takes into account the "longevity risk" that we often forget about.

Many people underestimate the risk of living longer than their money lasts. They plan as if retirement is merely a designated period after they stop work, until they reach the life expectancy of about 84 years. But what happens if you live longer than that?

CPF Life was never designed to make us rich. It is designed to make sure we do not completely run out of income in old age.

For those turning 55 this year, having the Full Retirement Sum of S$220,400 in your CPF Retirement Account means receiving S$1,780 a month from age 65 until death. 

If you need more, the current Enhanced Retirement Sum of S$440,800 provides a monthly payout of S$3,400 to S$3,500. If you opt to start monthly payouts from age 70 instead, this figure goes up to about S$4,580 a month.

These CPF sums are not random numbers to be dismissed casually, as they determine the CPF Life income floor you can build for your older self.

Of course, relying on our CPF alone may not be enough for everyone. If you want overseas holidays, restaurant meals, private healthcare options, gifts for grandchildren or the ability to support ageing parents, you will likely need additional savings and investments.

CPF Life should usually form the basic retirement floor. Other investments should sit on top of it, not recklessly substitute it.

And if your financial adviser is asking you to reduce your CPF funds in favour of another more expensive investment product, you should think twice.

PUTTING THE PIECES IN THE RIGHT ORDER

The biggest lesson I've learnt is that retirement planning is not just about how much you make or save. It's also about putting the pieces in a specific, sequential order. 

Before chasing returns, I made sure I started building emergency funds. Then, I secured insurance for risks such as hospitalisation, disability, death and critical illness, especially with dependants relying on my income. 

Next, I assessed CPF Life retirement income before planning additional income sources. 

Only after these steps did I take more investment risks for growth, lifestyle upgrades and legacy planning.

But many people get this sequence wrong. They start with investments and try to chase returns. Then they buy products, only to realise too late that their savings foundation was weak to begin with.

The difficult thing about retirement planning is that we are making decisions today for a version of ourselves we have not yet met, and for a life we know little about. We have no idea whether we will be in good health or how much higher prices will be in the future due to inflation.

But if we start early, there's still time to prepare to retire right.

Last year, my mother retired from a career in banking that spanned 40 years.

I no longer live with her, but from what I can tell, she's livin' la vida loca – Spanish for "living the crazy life" – however "loca" a Singaporean in her 60s can get.

She's been on five holidays in the past 12 months. She volunteers at a neighbourhood hospital. She's also been learning to cook and making the most of her Friends of Mandai Senior membership by acquainting herself with the winged residents at Bird Paradise every month.

While retirement is realistically still a long, long way off for this 30-year-old, my mother's post-corporate adventures got me thinking seriously about how I would like to go about my septuagenarian life.

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Where would I want to live, and how would I want to fill my days?

In Singapore, perhaps the most aspirational vision of that is Perennial Living, a luxury assisted living development along Parry Avenue launching this year with the kind of amenities that make you forget you're looking at aged care.

There's a rehabilitation and wellness centre on-site, a 1.5ha adjoining park as your garden and a private lift to your doorstep.

But its suites cost between S$8,900 (US$6,900) and S$17,000 a month. So unless I start making bank soon or perhaps win the lottery, I don't think I'll be spending my last years in luxury.  

Look abroad, however, and it feels like you can get more bang for your buck. 

For instance, there's Johor Bahru just across the Causeway, where one in three Singaporeans say they may eventually retire, according to a 2024 survey by Blackbox Research and Qualtrics.

In fact, retirement villages across Southeast Asia told me they've been experiencing what they call a "Singaporean tsunami" of inquiries in recent years, with some receiving anywhere from 15 to 40 in a month. 

A suite in a repurposed five-star hotel in central Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, runs to about RM9,900 (S$3,200) a month, while a Swiss-owned premium residence in Chiang Mai, Thailand, starts at around US$3,300. Both offer assisted living services with exceptional service to boot.

So it's no surprise that these retirement villages report growing interest from Singaporeans looking to make the most of their nest eggs.

Last year, I visited about a dozen such senior living facilities across Southeast Asia in my role as a reporter. With every senior I interviewed at each facility, I pictured myself in their shoes and observed them a little more keenly than what my job required.

Visa issues notwithstanding – might a retirement village overseas be a good fit for me?

SWISS ALPS IN CHIANG MAI

Many of these retirement villages know how to appeal to potential clients. One in Seremban, Malaysia had a pristine pool with a view of a glorious hill; another in Thailand would build a custom patio for you if you requested it.

Everything you could possibly want in your old age is provided. In many instances, I was sold.

But not everyone I came across looked like they were living the dream. 

I recall seeing some solo foreign nationals tucking into their farm-fresh gourmet meals or sitting alone on their patio, perhaps longing for some connection.

The most common question that retirement village operators hear from potential overseas clients is: "Are there people from my home country living there too?" And if the answer is no, that interest often wanes. 

At one particular Swiss-owned luxury retirement village in Chiang Mai, around half of its residents are, unsurprisingly, Swiss nationals.

Plastered along the walls of the main lobby are large paintings of the Swiss Alps and photographs of the Swiss city of Bern – little anchors of home while thousands of kilometres away from it.

At another Thai retirement village, I met a man in his eighties.

He was born in China but lived in Canada for 60 years, and spent a long time searching for a place to retire in the West before choosing to settle in Chiang Mai.

He spoke to me in fluent English for about an hour until he found out I could speak Mandarin too. I remember the way his face lit up when he realised we could continue our conversation in his native tongue.

WHERE WILL I RETIRE?

Of all the seniors I spoke to for my assignment, I resonated the most with the first one. Madam Khoo Mei Mei, also 83, left Penang in 1969, spent a year in the United Kingdom, and the next 55 years in Switzerland.

In May last year, she returned to her hometown to live in a retirement village. I asked her why.

"I am a Penangite and Penang is my home," she said. "So I decided to come back."

I understand what she means. Sure, I could definitely see myself in some of these beautiful places, living a life filled with luxury.

However, I know it wouldn't be long before I'd start to miss my kaya toast, soft-boiled eggs and thick, milky teh for breakfast.

And even if I could somehow get those treats abroad, it just wouldn't be the same without the smattering of Singlish in the background and the coffee shop mynahs hovering at my feet.  

It's not just the familiarity I want in my post-career life – it's also about what I want to do after retirement.

In many of the senior living facilities I visited, a key perk was the abundance of daily activities for seniors. I managed to observe them watching movies, singing karaoke and hollering "bingo!" by the foyer.

It seemed like fun, but it also sounded like a life where the biggest decision I'd make each day would be whether to pick the fish or the chicken at the catering line.

I can’t quite imagine a passive existence like that, no matter how old I get. Does true comfort in one's golden years boil down only to choosing the smoothest, shiniest path?

WHAT I WANT MY RETIREMENT TO LOOK LIKE

There's a coffee shop near my old Housing and Development Board flat that I used to visit every day after school to buy min jiang kueh – traditional Chinese pancakes typically filled with crushed peanuts. The aunty there watched me grow from a seven-year-old to a young adult.

I've since moved, but every so often I go back just to buy pancakes from her.

On some visits, she's not there, and I panic, wondering if it's finally the day she decided to hang up the spatula.

I feel it most clearly in those moments: I want to take over her legacy and be the one to make pancakes for the kids walking home from school.

To be clear, I don't actually know how to make min jiang kueh, but I'm convinced I could make a go of it after years of watching the process up close. I would just need to figure out how to make the batter.

That would be my version of a good retirement – becoming an integral part of a regular suburban neighbourhood in my home country, while keeping both my mind and body active. In many ways, it's what my mother is already doing with her current lifestyle of travelling, volunteering and learning new skills.

It feels slightly ironic that it took a tour around Southeast Asia for me to realise that I'd like to live out my final years in the very same place that made my early ones so rich and full.

So it looks like I don't need a lavish retirement village. Sometimes, the simple life can be the most fulfilling one.

Renald Loh is a journalist at CNA Digital Verification.

"Could be more visible. Hardly notice her in a crowd."

This was one of the comments I received in my 360-degree feedback review last year, in which anyone who works with me can weigh in, from peers to colleagues I manage.

It came within months of my taking up a new leadership role as a director of the food, chemical and biology cluster at the Singapore Institute of Technology (SIT). I still don't know who wrote it.  

I remember chuckling when I read that. Not because it wasn't true, but because it was.

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I've never been the loudest person in the room, nor have I felt the need to be.

I was comfortable in my introverted skin, spending 11 years at SIT contributing quietly behind the scenes, focusing on the work, and listening more than I spoke.

While I took the feedback in good faith, I started questioning whether visibility was simply an extrovert’s advantage – something introverts, like myself, simply lacked or had to work twice as hard for.

A discussion with a mentor helped me see this even more clearly as we reviewed my feedback together. "Your job is to speak up," he told me. "For your cluster, your colleagues and your students."

I have never forgotten those words. He made me realise that visibility was not about self-promotion or making myself the centre of attention, contrary to my long-held belief.

Rather, it has become part of my responsibility to the people I worked with and the students in my cluster.

FINDING MY VOICE AS AN INTROVERT

Speaking up has never come naturally to me.

Outside of work, I am known for speaking little, enjoying long walks in silence, and needing quiet time to recharge after a long day.

My long-suffering husband and three children know this well. After all the talking I do at work, they generously give me space to "recharge my social battery".

On weekends, my much-needed quiet time is spent on simple pursuits like long solo walks and quiet reading. Slowing down helps me recharge after a busy week and gives me space to reflect and prepare for the coming one.

In social settings, I am far more comfortable listening than speaking. Meaningful conversations with a close friend or two are more what I enjoy rather than trying to socialise in large groups.

And for most of my early career, I was genuinely content to let my work speak for itself.

I focused on doing my job well, believing good work would naturally be recognised without me needing to draw attention to it.

CAN INTROVERSION WORK IN MY FAVOUR? 

But oftentimes, that may not be the case.

Some modern workplaces subconsciously reward extroverts due to their visibility.

Extroverted peers are more inclined to take the floor and share their rough thoughts without hesitation, even while introverts sit quietly, confident in their thoughts that could be equally valuable before speaking up.

I gradually realised that for introverts, the challenge is often not capability, but how capability is perceived.  

For women in fields where our gender is underrepresented, this imbalance can cut twice as hard.

Early in my career, there were moments when I felt pressure not only to do my job well but also to establish credibility and assert my presence so that my voice would be heard.

Throw introversion into the mix, along with the expectation to perform and establish our presence in a certain way, and the experience becomes even more complex.

And yet, I've seen enough female introverts thrive at my workplace to know that introversion itself is not a limitation. In fact, some of the most effective leaders I have worked with were not necessarily the loudest people in the room.

They asked thoughtful questions. They created space for others to contribute and often noticed perspectives that might otherwise go unheard.

It reminded me that there is more than one way to lead, and I needed to find the leadership style that best fits my traits. 

HOW INTROVERSION SHAPES MY LEADERSHIP TODAY

At some point, I stopped asking myself what I wanted to do and started asking a different question: Who was I willing to speak up for?

The answer was my students and colleagues – the very group of people whose successes I can enable.

Once I had my why, things began to shift naturally for me.

Speaking up remains something I have to work at. But it is no longer about finding the will to use my voice. It is about ensuring that the people I care about are heard.

My strategy? Always prepare. Before any meeting where I know I'll need to speak, I read the materials, make sure I know who's attending, think through the counterarguments other attendees might raise, and pen down my thoughts lest I forget them.

In work-related social settings, I come armed with questions and topics for small talk. It still surprises me how often people are willing to share their thoughts when prompted with the right questions.

Upon reflection, I've come to realise that many qualities associated with introversion are leadership strengths rather than limitations.

Introverts are often said to excel in deep listening, reflective thinking, evidence-based decision-making, a sustained focus on complex problems, one-on-one mentorship, and relationship-building.

Identifying as an introvert and recognising these strengths in myself helps me stay true to myself – I do not need to be someone else just to be an effective leader.

Instead, I play to my strengths. I have more one-on-one conversations. I schedule quiet time to recover after lecturing a large class of more than 100, and I set aside time to think and reflect in silence.

Just as I was entrusted with leading a faculty despite my supposed lack of visibility, I am more intentional today in recognising the strengths of the introverts on my team.

I pay closer attention to team members who may not speak first by nature, those who contribute more meaningfully in smaller group discussions, and colleagues who demonstrate depth through thorough reflection rather than seeking the spotlight.

It's only been a year and a half since that impactful feedback, but I'm looking forward to my next evaluation session. 

Perhaps the comments will look different this time – and whoever wrote the previous ones will have noticed me by now.

Associate Professor Cheow Wean Sin is the cluster director of the food, chemical and biotechnology cluster at the Singapore Institute of Technology.

I was raised in a frugal, single-income family. Growing up, treats from my parents were infrequent and usually took the form of modest meals out.

Given our family circumstances, my parents always impressed upon me the importance of savings.

Consequently, as a child, I always felt a greater sense of achievement from emptying a full piggy bank to deposit into my savings account than from opening a newly-bought toy package.

Not that I'd go so far as to say that I had a deprived childhood, just a less indulgent one than many of my peers.

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Even when I started earning my own money, I did not quite develop the habit of treating myself.

The first time I ever celebrated a major milestone in my life by treating myself was when I passed probation at my first job, when I was almost 25 years old.

What did I buy? A S$20 (US$15.50) watch with a brown, faux-leather strap at a shop in my office building that I chanced upon during lunchtime.

And now that I'm in my mid-30s, this is one trait that has stayed unchanged over the years. Or at least, I'd like to think so.

Given my upbringing and my frugal tendencies, imagine my surprise when I started hearing the term "little treat" or "treat culture" being tossed around casually among younger friends and colleagues, as if it were the most normal thing to do.

While my initial instinct was to worry about how much they were spending and whether the money could be better spent elsewhere, I eventually realised I was more worried about the underlying motivation.

Do we really need to rely on the sweet promise of a little treat just to get through the day and do the things that we should do?

A REWARD FOR EVERYTHING?

To be clear, I'm not entirely against the idea of treating yourself.

A quick holiday to feel better after going through a particularly rough patch in life or at work? I understand that. Buying a little gift as a tangible memento to commemorate a milestone? It makes sense to me.

From what I gather, though, four in 10 Gen Zers indulge in little treats a few times a week, and one in 10 makes it a daily ritual – all in the name of self-care. These treats could come in the form of expensive gourmet coffee, a lip balm, a scented candle or even a collectable doll like a Labubu.

Treating myself to a S$14 frozen yoghurt for getting through half a day at work? Or splurging on a collectable toy for sweeping the house? I'll admit that I struggle to relate.

When I asked some of my younger colleagues who partake in this culture, they said they do it to motivate themselves to get through tasks they particularly dislike.

And this is the part that worries me. Already, we are surrounded by things that condition us for instant gratification – short-form videos over full-length dramas, and food delivery at the tap of a button instead of spending time and effort cooking up a storm.

Have some of us become so uncomfortable with discomfort itself that we resort to little treats just to cope?

And if we are expecting a treat at the end of every unpleasant chore, what happens when there is none?

MY OWN VERSION OF A LITTLE TREAT 

Then again, it would be unfair of me to pretend that I am somehow above spending money on things I do not strictly need.

I do enjoy a nice cup of coffee occasionally – like a S$6 latte from the cafe downstairs when I get tired of the free one at the office pantry.

And I recently enjoyed a S$12 affogato, the Italian dessert, with a friend after dinner without feeling guilty about it, either.

But, you see, that's how I have always justified it to myself: Spending a little more only on occasions where I'm out with friends, not as a frequent expensive pat on the back. 

If it sounds like I'm taking the moral high ground, I have a confession. The truth is that I have my own version of a regular little splurge: taking private-hire cars to get around.

I've never justified giving myself these rides as a reward for folding laundry or answering emails, but it is still discretionary spending all the same.

I also don't actively budget. Instead, I go by feel and decide it's time to cut down on spending only after checking my banking app every now and then.

It is, admittedly, not a good system. Which is why I was genuinely a little humbled when I learnt that a significant portion of younger spenders I was judging actually set aside a budget for their little treats.

Compared with my vibes-based approach, that sounds considerably more disciplined.

Maybe the question isn't about whether spending on ourselves is problematic, but whether we're doing it intentionally.

After all, a Gen Z worker who budgets for a weekly latte may be exercising more discipline than someone like me, who takes private-hire cars whenever the mood strikes.

AM I READING TOO MUCH INTO THINGS? 

It is one thing for a person to buy themselves small rewards to get through a difficult day.

But now, this habit is being enthusiastically celebrated online, and it can sometimes feel as though every small task completed warrants more spending.

To be fair, the younger generation did not invent this phenomenon.  

Some have likened this "little treat" culture to the "lipstick effect" – the tendency for people to indulge in small luxury goods, particularly during economic downturns, because they are more attainable than other big-ticket purchases.

The difference, perhaps, is that today's "little treat" culture is actively packaged as self-care rather than occasional indulgences – a framing that can make it difficult to question.

Of course, perhaps I'm reading too much into it. There are people who buy themselves a treat, like dessert, after a long day, without believing they deserve a medal for responding to emails.

And I certainly do not think less of my younger friends for spending money on things that make them happy.

Still, I am unconvinced by the notion that we deserve a reward for every small hardship. Maybe that says more about me than it does about them.

In the meantime, I think I'll spend a little more time reading up on "little treat" culture before making up my mind.

Or maybe I won't. Depends on whether there's a S$6 latte in it for me at the end of it.

Taufiq Zalizan is a senior journalist at CNA TODAY.

The average Singaporean primary schooler spends three hours a week in tuition. 

My nine-year-old daughter Claire spends double that time in a dance studio.

At 8pm on a Friday night, she's volunteering to stay behind after her ballet class. Not to practise her dance moves, but to be a teaching apprentice instead.

Shadowing her teacher, Claire helps younger dancers correct their posture and maintain their ballet poses, among other things. 

In a society built on efficiency, risk aversion and ROI (return on investment), backing my daughter to spend that much time developing an interest or a potential career outside the typical Singaporean aspiration list of doctors and lawyers raises plenty of eyebrows.

This is especially evident during family dinners and gatherings, when questions about her apprenticeship focus on how it'll affect her job prospects in adulthood.

"But what's she really going to do in the future?" 

"I hope you're not neglecting her schoolwork." 

"You should shift some of your budget to enrichment classes instead."

Although these are well-meaning critiques, we're holding fast to our belief that this decision to let her spend more time at her ballet school rather than in a tuition class will serve her well in an uncertain future.

Our belief isn't based on blind idealism or the "follow your passion" cliche.

In a future where analytical reports, illustrations, videos and mathematical problems can be generated with artificial intelligence (AI) and solved in a matter of seconds, a pertinent question is whether current curricula are adequate or even relevant for her future.

And so, will surviving, or even thriving, in the current system really deliver education's implicit promise?

WHAT I SEE IN THE EDUCATION REALM

To be clear, I'm definitely not neglecting my daughter's education. She attends weekly Chinese tuition classes with her eight-year-old brother.

Every day, I see the value of a strong academic foundation, as my wife and I run an online education centre helping students who struggle with their science subjects.

When our students first enrol, we notice that they are often unsure about the subject and have little confidence in engaging in discussions about science. Then, as they learn and gradually build their mastery of the subject, they begin to speak up, share their opinions and carry themselves with confidence.

But from my vantage point, I also see the cracks.

In an uncertain future, the advantage people will have won't be from memorising a textbook or just academics. 

Rather, what will give my daughter a leg up is to specialise in something that is difficult to replicate – perhaps a skill set like being able to communicate well with different audiences – paired with interpersonal intelligence and the values required to lead a room.

FROM DIRECTING CHILDREN TO FOLLOWING THEIR LEAD

There is an assumption that parents know what Is best for our children's futures, be it the subjects they take in class, how they spend their free time and the careers they should pick. 

That we're the directors, and our children are merely following our script.

But I've learnt that it doesn't need to be the parents taking charge. 

With Claire, we're not pushing her to leap high at the ballet studio; we're often the ones trying to keep up with her pace. 

She often asks for more time to observe other dancers' routines, or to help her dance teacher guide younger students through their routines.

My Friday evenings were once spent unwinding from the week. Now, I find myself stuck in my car waiting for her to complete her ballet class. 

And when I do get a chance to peek at her sessions, I see her showing empathy for the younger girls' problems and struggles.

I see her experimenting with different forms of communication to lead, encourage and instruct others. 

I see her developing the ability to think and feel beyond her own goals and challenges – to fully experience and share in the collective emotions of successes and failures on stage with her fellow dancers.

So when Claire initiated a conversation about how excited she would be to open her own ballet school one day, my wife and I were confident.

Our confidence is not from a place of arrogance, but from witnessing hours of almost torturous repetition, the discipline to show up even when it hurts and the grit to power through tough times while maintaining poise and elegance.

Values that would certainly put her in good standing to learn, build or improve any soft or hard skill sets required in the future – even if it's not starting her own ballet school.

Her current ballet school's motto is "Dance as an Education", and I couldn't agree more.

FINDING THE COURAGE TO GO OFF SCRIPT 

The scepticism we face at family gatherings about Claire's dedication to ballet is understandable. It comes from a place of love, but also from a fear that walking off the beaten path leads one straight off a cliff.

However, what I fear more is raising my children to be generic.

If we continue to push our children toward a safe middle ground, we are preparing them for a world that AI will likely make obsolete. 

We're betting they'll take up traditional jobs that will not be affected by technological advancements, without the fail-safe ability to adapt in a rapidly changing world.

What our children really need is the confidence and ability to move away from what we see today as "safe options" for a stable career. Because the reality is, there's no clear image of what a stable career will look like in the future.

What it may require is a fundamental shift in the Singaporean parenting mindset – from being the stage director of our children's lives to being their stagehands.

It may mean providing the financial, emotional or logistical means to support a vision they believe in; trusting that letting them pursue what their curious minds envision will allow them to learn something that textbooks can't teach.

Choosing this path is uncomfortable, yes. 

You will be judged at dinners, but you have to keep faith that the specialised mastery your child chooses and the experiences lived outside of school are every bit as important as being a top scorer in English, mathematics or science.

If we want our children to stay resilient and thrive in the future, that change has to start at home. We have to be willing to let go of our own outdated scripts to let them write their own.

And as a parent in the education industry, I'm starting with the man in the mirror.

Roystonn Loh is an entrepreneur and father of three who manages an education business in Singapore.