Behind these walls are stories that don't make it into any official report - silent battles, whispered fears, brave confessions. The halls are not just living spaces; they are emotional landscapes, echoing with laughter, pain, hope, and growth. And at the centre of it all is the Hall Administrator - not just a mother-figure, but a counsellor, a mediator, a lifeline.
What makes it even more delicate now is that the students are younger. Some arrive barely out of childhood, with fresh faces and fragile confidence, thrown into a world that demands quick maturity. They come with heavy questions and open wounds, often hiding behind smiles or silence. And when things get overwhelming - as they often do - it is the Hall Administrator who becomes their anchor.
Every day, she opens her door to students carrying burdens too heavy for their years - heartbreak, anxiety, loneliness, uncertainty about the future. She listens without judgment, offers wisdom without preaching, and holds space for their truth. Some walk in broken, and walk out a little lighter, simply because someone cared enough to listen.
And in this era of Gen Z - where students are more aware, more questioning, and more emotionally expressive - her role is even more demanding. They don't just want comfort; they want clarity. They ask not just what should be done, but why. Why do I feel lost? Why does the system expect me to fit a mould I don't recognise? Why can't I shape my own path?
These are not easy questions, but she doesn't shy away. She meets them where they are - not with control, but with compassion. With presence. With quiet strength.
I've seen the quiet heroism in this work - the unseen, often unappreciated labour of love that holds this community together. And it has humbled me. It has opened my eyes to the truth that caring for students goes far beyond policies and procedures. It's about heart. It's about presence. It's about being human in a way that truly matters.