Uncategorized

I often joke that I’m “uncool”. Not in the self-pitying sense, but in the sense that I’ve stopped trying to bend myself into whatever shape the world thinks is acceptable at that moment. To me, being uncool is the most liberating thing I’ve ever embraced. It simply means being myself — I, Mohit Riz, without the masks, without the pretence, without the endless need for approval. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. In my younger years, like many people, I wanted to fit in. I wanted to dress the way others did, to sound like I knew the right things, to be liked, admired, respected. And in chasing all that, I sometimes found myself further away from who I really was. I remember walking into certain rooms and almost rehearsing the version of “Mohit” I thought I needed to be — the witty one, the serious one, the ambitious one. Each role had its use, but each chipped away at something inside. The turning point came slowly, not in one dramatic moment, but in a series of small realisations. A friend once said to me after a long conversation, “I like you better when you stop trying to be impressive.” At first I laughed it off, but later it struck me — how much of my energy was spent trying to be “impressive”, and how little was spent just being present? Living authentically doesn’t mean I’ve figured everything out. It means I’ve chosen to stop pretending. Some days, authenticity looks like admitting I don’t have the answers. Other days, it’s saying no when everything in me wants to say yes just to please someone. And sometimes it’s simply about admitting when I’m tired, when I’m struggling, when I’m not as strong as I’d like to appear. It’s funny — when you drop the performance, people actually respond better. The friendships deepen. The conversations get more honest. I’ve had moments where I confessed doubts or shared failures I thought would make me look weak, and instead they became the bridges that brought me closer to others. Vulnerability, I’ve learnt, is not a weakness but a form of truth-telling. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. We live in a world that rewards the curated version of ourselves. Scroll through any social media feed and you’ll see polished highlights, carefully chosen angles, stories of success. Rarely do you see the sleepless nights, the mistakes, the insecurities. It’s tempting to play along with that game. But I’ve learnt that the price of constant performance is too high. You end up living for validation instead of living for yourself. One memory stands out. A few years ago, I was at a dinner where everyone seemed to be boasting about their achievements. I sat there listening, nodding politely, but inside I felt detached. When it came to my turn, instead of rattling off a list, I simply said, “Honestly, it’s been a hard year. I’m just grateful to still be standing.” The table went quiet, then one person smiled and said, “Same here.” And just like that, the conversation shifted. People started sharing real struggles, real worries. It was a reminder that authenticity has a way of giving others permission to be real too. For me, living authentically also means holding on to the things that bring me joy, even if they don’t look “cool” to anyone else. It means training Muay Thai not because it’s trendy, but because it keeps me grounded. It means listening to old songs that remind me of Peru, even if no one else around me knows them. It means writing in spaces like this, not to impress, but to express. I won’t pretend I’ve perfected it. There are still moments I slip back into performance, still times I feel the urge to hide parts of myself. But more and more, I choose to step into honesty instead. To be seen, even if imperfectly. Because at the end of the day, authenticity is not about being flawless. It’s about being real. And I’d rather be remembered for that — for being the “uncool” version of myself — than for any mask I could ever wear.

When I think about the things that have shaped me most, it isn’t just places or experiences — it’s people. The friends I’ve met along the way, across different continents and cultures, have taught me more about life than any book or classroom ever could. I’ve always believed that friendships are the true wealth we carry. The older I get, the more certain I am of this. Money comes and goes, careers rise and fall, but the laughter you share with someone who truly sees you — that stays. Growing up in Peru, my first close friends were the kids from the neighbourhood. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. We played football on dusty fields until the sun disappeared, argued over who scored, then made peace again with a shared meal at someone’s house. Those early bonds taught me that friendship isn’t complicated. It doesn’t need status or performance. It just needs presence. Later, when life brought me to Singapore, I discovered how powerful friendships could be when they crossed borders. I still remember my first few months here — the city felt overwhelming, fast-paced, and a little intimidating. But then I met people who welcomed me in, who shared not just food and stories but their families and traditions. A simple dinner invitation became the start of bonds that have lasted years. What always amazes me is how laughter sounds the same everywhere. I’ve had friends in Lima, Bangkok, London, and Singapore, and though our accents are different and our worlds apart, that moment of shared humour cuts through all barriers. It reminds me that at the core, we’re not as different as we think. Of course, friendships are not always easy. Distance complicates things. I’ve lost touch with people I once thought I’d never lose. Some drift quietly; others end with misunderstandings. I’d be lying if I said those didn’t hurt. But even in the loss, there’s a lesson: not all connections are meant to last forever, and that’s alright. Some friends are there for a season, to teach you something you needed in that moment. One memory stands out. Years ago, a close friend from Peru came to visit me in Asia. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly a decade. At first, we were both nervous — would it be awkward, had we grown too different? But the moment we sat down and started talking, it was as if no time had passed at all. The conversation flowed, the old jokes resurfaced, and I realised then that true friendships are elastic — they stretch, bend with time, and then snap right back into place. I often catch myself reflecting on what makes certain friendships endure. I think it comes down to honesty. The friends I value most are the ones I can be unfiltered with — the ones who don’t need me to be “business Mohit” or “public Mohit,” the versions of Mohit Riz the world assumes I should be, but who accept the messy, uncertain, sometimes foolish parts of me too. With them, there’s no scoreboard, no transaction. Just trust. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve done enough to nurture these bonds. Life gets busy, we get caught up in work, in ambition, in our own struggles. But when I look back, the happiest moments are rarely about professional milestones. They’re about late-night conversations, road trips with too much bad singing, or sitting in silence with someone who doesn’t need you to explain yourself. And maybe that’s what “without borders” really means. It’s not just about geography. It’s about friendships that don’t draw lines around who you’re supposed to be. It’s about those rare people who let you cross over into their lives fully, and who cross into yours with the same openness. I don’t take those people for granted. They’ve reminded me, again and again, that no matter where you are in the world, you’re never truly alone as long as you’ve got someone you can call a friend. So when I think about success, I don’t measure it in numbers or titles. I measure it in the faces that come to mind when I ask myself: Who would I call in the middle of the night, just to talk? Who would fly across the world if I really needed them? Those are the borders that matter — the invisible ones, stretched between hearts, not maps. And if I’ve learnt anything from living across continents, it’s that those friendships are the only kind of wealth worth carrying everywhere.

People often think Muay Thai is about fighting — about the violence, the ring, the spectacle of one man trying to break another down. I suppose on the surface, it looks like that. But for me, Muay Thai has never been about knocking someone out. It’s about something quieter, more personal. It’s about facing myself — I, Mohit Riz, in the rawest sense. Every time I step into the gym, there’s a voice in my head that says, “Are you really ready today?” And most days, the answer is no. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. My body aches. My mind is already looking for excuses. But the discipline of Muay Thai doesn’t leave space for excuses. Once the gloves are strapped on, every punch and every kick becomes a conversation — not with the person across from me, but with the part of myself that wants to quit. I remember my first proper sparring session. I walked in with confidence, thinking my fitness would carry me through. Ten minutes later, I could barely breathe. My arms felt like lead, my legs refused to lift, and my opponent — who wasn’t even trying to hurt me — kept landing shots that made me feel clumsy and slow. After that round, I sat on the floor drenched in sweat, humiliated, and the coach leaned over and said, “This isn’t about being strong. It’s about being honest. Now, what did you see in yourself today?” That moment stuck with me. Because what I saw was not weakness, but truth. The truth that I had limits. The truth that my mind wanted comfort more than it wanted growth. And that’s when I realised Muay Thai was less about beating someone else and more about learning to stop lying to yourself. There’s a brutal honesty in the sport. You can’t fake your way through a round. If your guard is sloppy, you’ll get tagged. If your footwork is lazy, you’ll trip. If you’re distracted, even for a second, it shows. And yet, every mistake is a teacher. I’ve walked out of training with bruises, a black eye, and once even a cracked rib. But every single time, I’ve walked out clearer in the head. Because the ring doesn’t care who you pretend to be — it only shows you who you are. In Singapore, my life can feel fast, structured, and tightly managed. Deadlines, meetings, constant motion. There are times when I’m so caught up in that pace that I forget to check in with myself. Muay Thai forces me back into the present. It strips away the roles and titles. It doesn’t matter what deals I’ve closed or what projects I’m running. On the mat, I’m just another student, trying to balance, trying to breathe, trying to endure. Sometimes during training, I catch myself smiling in the middle of exhaustion. Not because it’s easy — it’s not — but because it’s real. There’s no pretending in that moment. No mask. Just me, raw and imperfect, learning the hard way. And oddly enough, that feels liberating. I’ve had friends ask, “Why put yourself through that? Why not just go for a jog or hit the weights?” I get their point, but for me, jogging doesn’t talk back. Weights don’t hit you in the face if you’re careless. Muay Thai holds up a mirror and demands an answer. It doesn’t let you hide. And that’s why it keeps me honest. There was a night not long ago when I almost skipped training. I’d had a rough day, my body was tired, and honestly, I just wanted to sit with a beer and switch off. But something in me said, “Just go. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” I dragged myself there, half-heartedly warmed up, and by the end of the first round I was drenched in sweat. By the end of the session, I felt lighter, sharper, at peace. Walking home that night, I realised again why I keep coming back. It’s not because I enjoy being hit — no one does. It’s because every session strips me down to something simple and honest: effort, resilience, clarity. Muay Thai has become an anchor. In a world where it’s so easy to get lost in appearances, in success, in constant striving, the sport gives me something real. It reminds me that discipline is freedom, that pain can be a teacher, and that the hardest battles are often with the self. And every time I step off the mat, battered but clear-headed, I know I’ve faced myself — and told the truth.