Sophia Sim

Traveler around the world in 80+ countries

International Financial Planner CFP

Author /  Motivator / Travaller / Wealth Advisor 

A person who believe end-of-life planning should be as dynamic as life itself.  My "WHY" of choosing to become a life planner:

His last breath. His last words. A piece of my heart broke along with him. I lost someone, a precious someone closest to my heart. Here is my story.

Lost in thought, I was filled up with sorrows and deep regrets, seeing my father laying stiffly on the hospital bed. I wished I could travel back through time to undo all my wrongdoings, to be a good girl and make my father happy and proud of me.

I was a rebellious child, always looking for trouble and ignoring my father’s advice when he asked me to be a good girl and behave well in school. That time, no one really cared about me as a troublemaker, as they knew I would pass that stage of being troublesome sooner or later. However, that did not happen. I became a bully. Well, a secretive bully who only bullied puny boys and girls to give me their pocket money. Every time I stared into those kids’ eyes filled with pure fear, it gave me the glory of having power over someone smaller, the pride that overwhelmed me.

That fateful day, I was eating my food during recess when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I whizzed around, only to find myself staring eye to eye with the school prefect *Mei Ling*.

“Hey Sophia! Ms. Chen wants to see you at the General Office.” Turning around and with a motion of her finger, she beckoned me to follow her.

My heart skipped a beat. “Am I in trouble?” I wondered. It was probably that Mr. Goodie-two shoes, *Wei Jie*! Wei Jie had been a boy whom I had been threatening for his pocket money every day. He was always cowering at me and gave me all his pocket money. “He is so going to get it!” I fumed silently as I clenched my fists. I then followed her to the General Office. There, stood Ms. Chen, with her arms akimbo, her face solemn. She gestured for me to sit down on the leather chair in the office.

Once the door was closed and the footsteps of Mei Ling faded away, Ms. Chen with unexpectedly gentle and sympathetic eyes, leaned toward me and said: “Sophia, I have some bad news for you… regarding your father…”

Next moment, it was me sitting beside Father’s hospital bed, with tears rolling down like a river on my already tear-stained face, clutching my father’s lifeless hand, desperate to awaken him back to life. I was told that my father had been found unconscious on the sidewalk. When awake for a brief moment, he kept repeating my name and school. He was at his last stage of lung cancer. Father hid it from me!

Jolting out of my trance a few moments later, the sound of intense urging beeping filled my ears. Doctors and nurses hurriedly rushed to Father’s bed. My heart palpitated like those hopeless beeps of the life-saving machines surrounding Father, fearing for the worst. Beep. Beep. Beeeep…… That was the last breath Father took, the last time he opened his eyes, the last moment he ever moved. He would never wake up again. My whole world fell. What could only be seen was a little girl kneeling onto the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivulets. Sadness engulfing my soul, I sniffed and pulled out the crumpled note with father’s shaky and uneven handwriting of his last words to me.

It wrote:

“Dear my lovely daughter, Papa is so sorry… I can’t be there to take care of you anymore. Take good care of yourself, okay? Be a good and kind person that everyone loves. Be nice to friends. Papa will not be there with you anymore, but your friends will be. They are the ones who will always be there with you through your highs and lows, cheer you up when you are down. Don’t bully friends but appreciate them while you still can. Papa will always be there like your guardian angel, watching over you.

Don’t be sad! Be strong!

Love you so, so much!

Papa

I crumpled that piece of paper back into my pocket, tears still dripping down my face, crying harder than I ever did. He wanted me to understand. Understand how important friends can be. How bullying will not achieve the true meaning of friendship.

That day, I lost my father. I lost the very precious person who loved me more than his life and cared for me until his last breath, the very person whose words cover me like the warmest blanket deep in my soul, echoing through my mind forever and wherever I go, reminding me the true meaning of friendship, not the glory of overpowering someone.

Father’s words. I lost Father.

Three wishes. How many people, when faced with such an opportunity, would rush to ask for wealth, fame, or a life of ease? But when Papa sat me down beside the old oak tree one evening, with the fading light of the sun casting long shadows over the fields, he said, “If you ever had three wishes, remember this: they are not for you alone. They are for the world, for those who have given you everything, and for those who are yet to come.”

I didn’t fully understand what he meant back then, as I sat there beside him, the cool autumn breeze tugging at my hair. Papa was always like that, speaking in riddles, his wisdom buried deep beneath his words, waiting for me to unravel it. 

Now, years later, I can still hear his voice, and I think of that moment when the stars begin to twinkle above, and the night wraps its cool arms around the earth. And with each passing day, as I started to work, I realized something else — my heart had settled. I had found the peace I had been searching for all along, not in the rush of city lights or the promise of success, but in the steady rhythm of the earth. In the fields where my ancestors had walked before me, where their sweat had soaked into the soil, I found the strength to live my life with purpose. 

If I were ever to be given three wishes, they would be simple, as if they were whispered directly from the heart.

My first wish would be for Papa to have the strength he once had. To see him walk without that slow, tired shuffle, to see him stand tall and proud, like the man I remember from my childhood, with his broad shoulders and deep laughter. There were times when I could see the weight of years pressing on him, his back bent from working in the fields, his hands calloused from years of hard labor. I wanted to give him back his youth, to see him chase after the wild geese in the rice paddies again, to hear him tell me stories of the past with the same fire in his eyes that had once burned so brightly. But I knew that this was a wish I could not make real — no magic could turn back time. Yet still, in the deepest part of my heart, I would wish for **Papa** to be whole once more, as strong as the mountains that had watched over us since before I was born.

My second wish would be for Mama — to ease the burden that had rested on her shoulders for so many years. There was a quiet strength in her, a calmness that had always been the backbone of our family. I remembered how she would rise before the sun, tending to the fire and preparing breakfast, how she would sit with me at night, her gentle hands weaving baskets or mending my clothes, while I sat beside her, my head resting on her lap. The world outside could be harsh, but inside our home, there was warmth, there was peace, and it was **Mama** who made it so. But I saw how tired she was, how the years had worn her down, and I could not help but feel the weight of her sacrifices. If I had the power, I would wish for her to have a life without worry, for her hands to rest, for her to feel the softness of life without the constant pressure of survival. I wanted her to know that she could be at peace, that she could breathe easy, and that she would never again have to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And my third wish — the final one — would be for the generations to come. For the children who have not yet been born, for the ones who will grow up in a world that I will never see. I would wish for them to have a future that is filled with promise and hope, a world where the mistakes of the past have been learned from, where the air is clean and the rivers run free, where they can stand beneath the same oak tree I sat by all those years ago and feel the warmth of the earth beneath their feet, just as I did. I would wish for them to be kind, to be brave, to remember the sacrifices of those who came before them, and to carry that wisdom into the world with love and compassion. 

Perhaps it is strange, to think not of personal desires, but of the lives of others — but that is how I was raised. Papa always told me that a person’s true worth is not measured by what they take, but by what they give. The greatest gift I could ever receive was to see those I love happy and at peace, and to know that the future, though uncertain, would be filled with promise for those who come after me.

In the stillness of the night, I realize that no matter how small my wishes may seem, they are rooted in love. For the people who shaped me, for the hands that guided me, and for the world that I hold dear in my heart. Three wishes — they are not for wealth or fame. They are not for myself, but for those who have given me everything, for the earth that nourishes us, and for the future that will carry us forward.

And so, if the stars ever grant me those wishes, I would not ask for more than what is needed, for love has already given me all I could ever want.

As the moon rises high in the sky, I sit there, beneath the oak tree, thinking of **Papa** and Mama, and the world that will continue, just as it always has, with or without magic. And I know that, in the end, the greatest wish of all is the one that comes from the heart — the wish that those we love will always be safe, will always be happy, and will always know that they are never alone.

When I was young, my mother often told me that the world we live in is shaped by the brushstrokes we make — that everything begins with a single line, a single idea, drawn from the heart.

But what if I could make something come to life with just the flick of a brush?

I remember the first time I held a calligraphy brush in my hands, the smoothness of the ink as it sank into the paper, the steady strokes that felt both delicate and powerful. It was a gift from Papa — a simple wooden brush, worn and frayed from years of use, yet still perfect in its shape. He told me, “A brush is not just a tool. It is a vessel of your spirit. With it, you shape not just what is in front of you, but what lies deep inside.”

In the stillness of the evening, I often sat with that brush, dipping it into ink, imagining the stories I would tell. But I never truly understood Papa’s words until that summer, when something inexplicable happened.

It was late in the afternoon, the sun dipping low behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the rice paddies. Mama was inside, stirring the pot of soup, her soft humming filling the air. I sat outside on the stone bench, drawing on the weathered parchment that had been handed down from my great-grandfather. My heart was heavy that day — I had just heard that Papa's health was not improving. He had grown weak, his steps slower, and there was a sadness in his eyes that even Mama tried not to show.

I wanted to draw something for him, something that would make him smile again, something to remind him of the strength he had given me all my life.

I took up the brush, its bristles cool and comforting against my fingers. I closed my eyes, letting my memories flood in. I began with the simple outline of a **lotus flower**, its petals gently unfolding in a delicate swirl. I imagined the flower blooming beneath the soft glow of the morning sun, the same glow that had always bathed Papa’s face as he worked in the fields.

As my brush moved across the paper, I thought of **Papa's** laugh, deep and full, like the rumbling sound of the earth shifting beneath us. I thought of his calloused hands, always reaching out to help, to guide, to protect. I thought of the way he taught me to be patient, to be kind, to respect the earth beneath my feet.

But as the petals of the lotus formed, something happened — the ink seemed to shimmer, almost as if it was alive. At first, I thought it was the dimming light playing tricks on me. But when I looked closer, the lines began to shift, to move. The lotus, once flat and still, began to rise from the paper, its petals unfurling as if the flower were breathing.

I gasped, stepping back, my heart racing. Before I could understand what was happening, the flower began to grow, slowly, quietly, until it stood before me — a living, breathing lotus, its soft petals glowing like moonlight. I reached out, and as my fingers brushed against the flower’s delicate surface, I felt a warmth that spread through me, a sense of peace, of belonging.

But then, in the distance, I saw Papa coming slowly towards the house, his tired feet dragging across the dusty path. He was so frail, so small, a shadow of the strong man he once was. My heart ached, and I realized that the lotus, though beautiful, was not enough to make him whole again. It could not take away the years that had worn him down, nor could it restore the vitality that was slipping from him.

So, I took the brush again, this time drawing something more — a mountain, strong and steady, rising up through the mist. I painted the ridges of the mountain with care, each stroke representing the resilience that had been passed down from generation to generation. This time, as I drew, the mountain rose not just on the paper but in the air, its edges sharp and solid, towering over the courtyard. I reached out and touched it, and I felt its strength in my own body, as though the earth had wrapped me in its arms.

The mountain was alive, but it was not for me. It was for Papa. It was the strength I wished I could give him — the strength to stand tall, to weather the storms, to endure.

I heard Papa's footsteps on the stone path, and when I turned to face him, I saw his eyes widen in awe, his face softening as he looked at the mountain and the lotus that now stood together in the courtyard. For the first time in days, a smile tugged at his lips.

“You’ve brought the world to life, Wei,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with warmth.

And in that moment, I understood.

I could not stop time or make Papa young again. But I could give him this — this flower and this mountain — to remind him that he was never truly alone, that the strength of our ancestors, the strength of the earth, lived on in him, in me, and in all of us. I could give him my love, my respect, and my promise that no matter how far I went, I would always come back to the roots we had planted together.

I held out my hand, and Papa took it, his fingers still strong in mine.

Together, we stood before the lotus and the mountain, our hearts full. And for that moment, the world outside faded, leaving only the beauty of the life we had drawn, standing proud in the moonlight.

If I could invent anything, it would be a thread — a single, invisible thread that connects the hearts of all those who have ever loved, and those who will love, long after we are gone.

I imagine it now, floating like a whisper in the air, so delicate and yet so strong. This thread would be woven from the softest silk, glimmering faintly under the moonlight, but resilient enough to carry the weight of an entire lifetime. It would stretch across rivers and mountains, through bustling cities and quiet villages, from one generation to the next, binding the past, the present, and the future together.

I think of **Mama**’s hands as they worked, each finger moving with a steady grace as she embroidered the family’s name on the corner of the old silk quilt she made when I was just a child. I remember how she hummed a soft tune while working, the sound rising and falling like a song carried by the wind. It was a song that spoke of strength, of enduring love, and of the unspoken promises she wove into every thread she placed into that quilt.

I think of **Papa** as he sat by the fire, his rough hands steady even as the years wore on. He never spoke much, but his love was in the way he cared for the land, the way he tended to the rice fields at dawn, and how he would always bring me my favorite mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival. There was always a glint of pride in his eyes, the kind that you see in the eyes of someone who has quietly given all they have for the ones they love.

I remember **Grandfather**, who would sit at the edge of the courtyard, his old bamboo flute resting gently in his hands. Sometimes, when the moon was full, he would play a tune that seemed to echo the stories of our ancestors. And I would close my eyes, listening to the melody, imagining the generations that had come before me, all of us bound by the same invisible thread.

But, as the years passed, I began to notice the distance that grew between us, even as the thread stretched on. **Mama**’s hands grew tired, the threads of her life becoming thinner and more fragile. **Papa**’s steps grew slower, the weight of time pressing down on his shoulders. **Grandfather’s** flute no longer sang its sweet song — it was now just a hollow sound, a whisper of the past.

And I began to understand. The thread that binds us all is not only woven in the moments of love we share, but also in the silence between those moments, in the small acts of kindness that go unnoticed, and in the sacrifices made without a second thought. It is in the memory of a touch, the warmth of a glance, the way a name is spoken when we are far away.

If I could invent anything, it would be this thread — invisible, yes, but powerful beyond words. A thread that would always bring us back to one another, no matter the miles, no matter the years, no matter the separation. A thread that could transcend even death, passing from one heart to another, keeping the essence of those we love alive, even when they are no longer with us in body.

I would weave it into everything — into the quilts Mama made, into the music Papa played, into the food we shared, and the stories we told. And when the time comes for me to leave this world, I would want that thread to be passed on, to be held gently in the hands of those I leave behind.

Because love is not just the moments we share, but the quiet strength of the threads we leave behind — the ones that bind us together, even when we are no longer seen.

And so, I would weave this thread, not just for me, but for all of us, knowing that even as I let go, I would never truly be gone.

If I could become invisible, I thought, I would not run away to steal treasures or play childish pranks.

No — the very first place I wanted to go was home.

Home — the crumbling little courtyard house tucked between the narrow lanes of the old town, where the winter winds whistled through the broken window frames, and where "Papa" still lit a small oil lamp every night, waiting.

Since I left for the city to study, I had not returned often. Life was busy; excuses piled up like fallen autumn leaves. I told myself that "Papa" understood. After all, fathers always understand, don't they?

But deep inside, guilt gnawed at me like silent termites chewing through wood.

If I could be invisible, I would slip past the noisy streets, past the crowded buses, and step quietly through the front door without "Papa" noticing. I would watch him from the shadows — see how he prepared my favorite steamed buns even though I wasn't coming, how he mended my old jackets with his thinning eyesight, threading the needle again and again with trembling fingers.

I would follow him as he shuffled out to the little temple by the banyan tree, kneeling on the cold stone floor to light incense, whispering prayers to the heavens:

"Bless my child. Keep him safe. Let him not feel cold or hungry, even if I must suffer."

If I could be invisible, I would walk behind him on the road home, carrying the heavy basket of vegetables he always insisted on carrying himself, even though his back bent lower with every step.

And when night fell, I would crouch silently by the bed, listening to his soft, broken coughing, watching his thin figure curled up under the patched quilt. I would wish — wish with all my heart — that I could become visible again, just for a moment, to throw my arms around him and cry into his lap like a small child once more.

"I’m sorry, Papa. I’ve been gone too long."

But being invisible meant I could not change the past. I could only watch, heart aching with every breath.

In the early morning, as the first rooster crowed, I would slip out again before the world awakened — carrying with me the scent of joss sticks, the echo of whispered prayers, and the heavy, bittersweet longing that only a father's love could plant so deeply into one’s bones.

And maybe, just maybe, when I returned to the visible world, I would no longer make excuses. I would no longer let life’s noisy clamor drown out the quiet voice that called me home.

Because some things — like a father's waiting heart — can only be seen clearly when you stop being seen yourself.

If I could fly, I would return to the fields of my childhood, high above the soil that Papa had tilled with his weathered hands, above the rice paddies where Mama once stood, her back bent with the weight of the seasons. From the sky, I would look down at the old house, the one with the cracked roof tiles and the faded red lanterns hanging from the eaves — a home that has seen more years than I can count, yet remains unbowed, like the spirits of our ancestors watching over us.

I would soar across the river where Grandfather used to fish, the one that winds through the valley like a snake made of silver. In the mornings, when the mist rises from the water, the land feels endless — and yet, I always felt the weight of its closeness, the way it held us together like the warmth of a blanket on a cold night. From above, I would see it all, the meandering path of the river, the small villages dotting the countryside, the roads that lead home.

If I could fly, I would rise above the mountains that keep us safe, that shield us from the storms, both the ones that pass through the skies and those that churn in the hearts of men. Papa once said that the mountains are like a man’s soul — unyielding, strong, and eternal. I would look down on them from the sky, and maybe, just maybe, I would understand the stillness that so often eluded me when I was younger, the peace that Papa always seemed to find in the quiet of the mountains, even as his body grew frail with age.

But most of all, if I could fly, I would come back to the place where I first learned to love — my family. I would hover above the courtyard at dusk, where the lanterns flicker like tiny stars in the deepening night, and I would listen to Mama’s voice as she calls out to us, her words floating like a melody on the evening breeze. I would see the glint of Papa’s tired eyes as he waits for me, his hands resting on the old wooden chair, the one that has borne the weight of his years.

And I would hover there, just for a moment, not as a son but as a spirit — a witness to all that has come before and all that will come after. I would see the joy and the sorrow that are forever intertwined in the fabric of our lives, the way the land holds both the roots of our family and the memories that drift like fallen leaves in the wind.

If I could fly, I would soar to the places where Papa had once dreamed of going but never did, where Mama had whispered about in her quietest moments. Maybe I would fly to the city, to the places I’ve seen on postcards, to feel the pulse of the world beyond our little village. But no matter where I went, I would always return, always come back to the home that shaped me, to the people who taught me the strength of love and the weight of sacrifice.

I would fly, but I would never leave them. Not really.

And when the time comes for me to land, I would rest beside Papa and Mama once more, knowing that, no matter how high I flew, the roots that bind me to them are far stronger than any wind.

I would fly, but home would always be waiting for me, and I would return — as I always have, as I always will.

For:  

- The Curious Newbie (Death? Let’s demystify it.)  

- The Jaded Insurance Pro (Yes, we’ll make paperwork interesting.)  

- The Cultural Omnivore (Hell bank notes? Let’s analyze their stock market.)  

Our beats:  

• The New Traditions 

Columbarium trends, eco-urns, and why millennials are pre-paying funerals like subscriptions.  

• Selling Hell Bank Notes Like Crypto with Nirvana’s CEO 

How one company turned joss paper into a speculative asset class.  

Diaspora communities reinventing traditions (Malaysian hell notes becoming NFTs)  

• Columbarium Architecture Is the New Real Estate Craze

Designing vertical cemeteries for millennials who want Insta-worthy eternal rest.  

• We Ate a 5-Course Meal at a Funeral Parlor 

The "mushroom" pâté wasn’t portobello.  

• AI Eulogies & Other Ways Tech Is Disrupting Death  

Meet the algorithm-generated "last words."  

• Pre-Planning Your Funeral Like a VIP Wedding  

Because flowers shouldn’t be your family’s last argument.    💀

• The Uncomfortable Economics 

Inflation-proofing your afterlife, and why hell money burns brighter during recessions.  

🍜 The Unexpected Connections

How memorial food (think: funeral bento, *siew yuk* offerings) reveals what we *really* believe about the hereafter.  

Cryogenic pod pre-order: Free dry ice with signup!

Become a Tree After Death (Limited-edition biodegradable casket!)

💸 Hell Bank Note Black Friday Sale: 10M bundles w/ free ‘Gold Ingot’ bonus!

 Rent-a-Mourne: Professional criers for ‘impactful’ grieving.

VIP ‘Fast Pass’ ancestor worship package

☕ "Cremation ash coffee blend

1st Annual Death Expo—early bird tickets!

🎲 Casket Roulette: Let us pick your funeral theme!

🚀 Elon-approved ‘Space Burial Lite’ (Ashes orbit Earth for 5 mins!)

💸 ‘Fireworks Burial Lite’

   ✔️ Digital columbarium slots 

   ✔️ Hell Bank Note DAO  

   ✔️ Limited-edition ‘Astronaut’ urn  

   ✔️ Leverage 6G cloud memorialization  

   ✔️ Monetize your eulogy as a podcast 

   ✔️ Pre-book your funeral *teh* set  

Pre-order hell bank notes—10 million, bulk discount!

Our ‘Rapid 2 hour Cremation’ process!

- Young Asian professionals reviving Qingming grave-sweeping traditions... via VR  

- Mexican-American families blending Día de Muertos ofrendas with eco-cremation  

- Digital natives leaving AI-generated "ancestor advice" chatbots  

🌏 When Globalization Changes Grief 

- The rise of "fusion funerals" (Buddhist chanting over Spotify playlists)  

- The "Death Positivity" movement going mainstream through K-dramas   

- How funeral foods reveal cultural values (e.g. Chinese longevity buns)  

- Why Gen Z cares more about memorial playlists than casket materials  

- TikTok death doulas making afterlife planning go viral  

- Families now consult AI feng shui apps to analyze grave sites remotely.  

- A 2023 survey showed 72% of Taiwanese under 40 prefer eco-burials (樹葬/海葬).  

- Viral TikTok trends like #GhostRealEstate mock the practice:  "My grandpa’s been ‘house hunting’ longer than I’ve been alive."  Would YOU store a coffin for decades?  

Through podcasts, documentaries, we're building bridges between:  

✔️ Ritual and innovation 

✔️ Personal legacy and cultural continuity  

✔️ The plans we make and the lives they honor 

Because how we prepare for death says everything about how we choose to live.  

We don’t do sterile. We do stories. We believe end-of-life planning shouldn't exist in a sterile vacuum - it's a vibrant conversation between tradition and modernity, personal values and collective rituals.  

Unlock The Road To Financial Freedom

Jom Borak Kopitiam | 什么click让你买阴宅？

Cemetery Land (The Dark Horse)

Why It’s the Stealth Wealth Builder | How to Honor Ancestors Without Going Broke  

|  Your grandparents bought rubber estates | You buy Grab stocks | Gen Alpha will inherit your grave portfolio.  

💰 Scarcity = Appreciation

- Urban land shortages (KL/JB plots ↑10–15% yearly) , KL businessman flips niches for 20% profit 

- Urban Sprawl: Traditional burial zones (e.g., 六張犁) are now prime real estate—developers offer 10X buyouts.  

- Nirvana’s premium plots now rival condo prices  

- Multi-generational value: Families reuse/lease niches  

📊 2020-2024 Price Growth (KL/Selangor)

(Sources: Nirvana annual reports, Bursa Malaysia, World Gold Council)  

| Asset                 | 2020 Price | 2024 Price | Growth | Liquidity      |

|----------------------|------------|------------|--------|----------------|

| Nirvana Plot | RM28,000   | RM42,000   | +50%   | Low (6–12 mo)   |

| Gold (1 oz)        | RM7,500    | RM11,200   | +49%   | Instant         |

| Suburban Land (500 sqft) | RM150,000 | RM210,000 | +40%   | Medium (3–6 mo) |

| KL Condo (500 sqft)| RM450,000 | RM480,000 | +6.7%  | High            |

📈 Graph Suggestion:  

Line chart showing 2020-2024 price trajectories with burial plots overtaking gold post-2022. For long-term holds (5+ years), burial plots in Greater KL have delivered 2X gold’s returns since 2020.

🌋 Why Burial Plots Beat Traditional Hedges

1. Demand Shockproof  

   - Gold fluctuates with USD rates  

   - Land depends on developer activity  

   - Burial plots sell faster during crises (Chinese proverb: *"Buy your grave before your house"*)  

2. Cultural Collateral  

   - Banks accept gold/land for loans  

   - But: Clan associations buy plots at premiums for members  

3. Stealth Tax Benefits  

   - Gold: Capital gains tax over RM200k profit  

   - Land: RPGT up to 30%  

   - Burial plots: Often classified as "religious assets" 

⚡ Cultural Immunity to Recessions, Feng Shui & "吉地" Obsession 

- Chinese Qingming rites ensure demand  

- Pre-need sales boom (Gen X/Y securing ancestral plots)  

- Ancestral Belief: Many Taiwanese families refuse to bury loved ones until finding the perfect grave site (風水寶地) that ensures prosperity.  

- Reality Check: Prime feng shui land near Taipei (e.g., 陽明山) now costs more than luxury apartments—forcing indefinite delays.  

The "44-Year" Case That Shocked Taiwan

- In 2021, workers renovating a Zhongshan District mansion discovered a coffin stored since 1977.  

- Investigation revealed:  

  - The wealthy family had bought multiple grave plots but kept arguing over feng shui.  

  - The deceased’s son (now 68) admitted: "We were waiting for Dad to ‘pick’ his favorite spot via divination."

🌱 Ethical Exit Strategies  

- Resell to developers for columbarium expansions  

- Donate for tax relief (qualified religious trusts)  

💡 How to Start:

1. Direct Purchase -Tip: pre-need discounts (up to 20% for cash)  

2. Pre-need Funds (Some takaful plans include plot coverage)  

"I want to hear my eulogy and see my memorial portraits while I can still argue with it." ~Namewee

From the festering events of the farewell ceremony on 1st April, 2024,  until now, we have remained silent until the music video went live. We think it's time to talk about our stance and original intention. Two months ago, we sponsored the shooting of the music video for this new song “When I'm Gone” by Namewee, which as far as we know, is a song written by Wee Meng Chee after teetering on the brink of near-death a few times. Whether as a mortician or as an ordinary emotional animal, we were deeply moved by the meaning of the lyrics from a multi-faceted perspective, and we also wanted to use the lyrics, melody and images of the song to help promote the life education that we have been actively advocating, and in a different form to make the society easily face up to the subject of life and death, and to stimulate the public to think about the planning of their lives, after all, in the face of death, all people are equal, and we are not because After all, in the face of death, everyone is equal, and we will not be able to stay away from death just because we are afraid of it and run away from it.

In the past few days, we have received a lot of criticisms, blames and abuses, thinking that we do not respect life, treating death as a child's play and treating the valedictory ceremony as a farce. All these misleading news and remarks have made us feel deeply helpless. Perhaps it is because of preconceived notions, or perhaps it is influenced by remarks made on the Internet, or perhaps it is simply because he is Wee Meng Chee, a renowned Malaysian musician who creates music on the Internet and became famous in 2007 for his Youtube adaptation of the Malaysian national anthem, and has since devoted himself to film production, writing, directing, acting, and singing, with the promise of “contributing his talents for the sake of patriotism”. Since his debut, he has been in the limelight for repeatedly criticizing politics with his creations. Making his debut on the big screen as a writer, director, and actor, Spice Up Your Mom not only combines kung-fu, motivation, song and dance, horror, luxury feuds, and Bollywood love into one, but also embraces a deep reflection on the Malaysian society and culture in the hilarious, seemingly absurd and ridiculous plots. People have overreacted a bit. But we would like to say that this sponsorship is not a misstep.

Everyone, has their own way of bidding farewell to the world, and it is actually a blessing to be able to arrange a farewell ceremony for oneself, or even to hear a family member's heartfelt confession with one's own ears. We can't dismiss all of Wong's decisions just because we don't agree with anything he said or did in the past, let alone the fact that it was a closed-door pre-birthday farewell for himself, his family, his friends, and his fans in the way he aspires to be. Furthermore, neither the shooting of the music video nor the farewell ceremony caused any distress to any of the deceased and their families, nor did it delay any of the funerals, which is something we can be sure of.

As a professional funeral service provider, we have always refrained from disclosing details even though we are burdened with doubts, after all, that is our professionalism. In the eyes of the general public, the ceremony may seem fake and viewed from the perspective of “deception”, but those who attended know that all the details were carried out in accordance with the manner and process of a real ceremony.

The real scene, the contagious atmosphere, deepen the sense of valedictory ceremony, we can not help but say the true words, as those who were present, we believe that these words and tears are real. Farewell ceremony, never a farce, if we can borrow the real scene in advance, hear the people around you to say the most sincere words, and then use the rest of their time and strength to change their next life, why not? We shouldn't blur the focus of the whole pre-life valedictory ceremony or even disregard his starting point just because this protagonist is Wee Meng Chee. 

The road of life education is not a good one. We have been walking it for many years, we have been groping and experimenting, trying everything we can to interpret life from different angles of thinking and to bring pre-life planning into society. We do everything we can to make people think about the meaning of life, about how to go on the last part of life, and to take good hold of hospice autonomy. Everyone, even the most squeamish, has the idea of ending their life well, even if it is just for a moment. However, the first step to a good death is to have some knowledge of death and make adequate preparations. If you can avoid it, death will come eventually, and if you can arrange for it in advance, why is it not a blessing?

Not everyone is so lucky to be able to make decisions for the last moment of their life. Who should make decisions for you when you fall into unconsciousness? Who should know your wishes? And who should know what to do with your funeral? Having suffered the loss of a loved one, you know what a heartbreaking feeling of helplessness and powerlessness it is to make final decisions for your family.

Obviously, not everyone is willing to accept our way of doing things, but we will persevere because our original intention never changes. The evolution of this incident, putting aside the negative comments and criticisms, maybe the process is a bit “exciting”, a bit scared, but we do make more people start to think out of the shackles of thinking, for their own future planning. While you still have a healthy body and mind, think about what form you want to say goodbye to the world in the future, or what you still want to do, or what you want to say to the people you love. To borrow the last line from the music video: what people need to be afraid of is not death, but the fact that they have not really lived. 

Why Pre-Need Funeral Planning is the Ultimate Gift to Your Family

The Inescapable Truth

Death is life's only certainty – yet 72% of Malaysians avoid planning for it (Nirvana Asia Survey 2023). This avoidance creates:  

✔️ Financial burdens (avg. emergency funeral cost: RM15k-25k)  

✔️ Family conflicts (47% dispute funeral decisions under stress)  

✔️ Unfulfilled wishes (82% regret not documenting preferences)