Our Uncomfortable Narra Sofas and Why We Keep Them
Thoughts on family artifacts, time, and grief
Our narra wood sofas have stood in our living room for as long as I can remember.
At 7 years old, I used to push those sofas around. My tiny arms braced against their weight — determined to rearrange our living room, inspired by Papa’s “Better Homes and Gardens” magazines. The furniture would scrape across the floor, leaving faint marks on the tiles.
These aren’t the plush, inviting couches that filled other families’ homes. They’re so rigid that you have to shift your weight every few minutes to give your butt a break.
“Why don’t we get softer couches?” my siblings and I would often ask our parents.
“We bought that set after we got married,” they said. “They don’t make narra furniture anymore.”
Narra is a hardwood from Southeast Asia, prized for its durability and resistance to termites. It’s become rare due to overharvesting, which explains my parents’ reluctance to replace our sofas.
The wood grows darker with age, like the deep reddish-brown color our sofas have become.
What we kids saw as unnecessarily rigid furniture was actually a priceless investment.
And so that was that.
Those narra sofas have seen our family through decades of change — financial struggles, milestones, arguments, and reconciliations.
Even my random childhood antics, like puffing baby powder onto the intricate carvings after watching Ace Ventura dust for fingerprints.
Or the time I pulled a Mary Poppins and jumped off the sofa with an umbrella, only to land chin-first on the floor. I put my hand to my chin and then found blood on my fingers. My laugh turned into a wail.
During New Year celebrations, the sofas would disappear beneath the bodies of distant relatives and family friends. People packed together so tightly that the discomfort of the wood seemed secondary to the warmth of everyone’s presence. Children would be perched on laps, plates balanced precariously on knees.
I watched the sofa become a makeshift bed for Mama when she caught the flu after stressful weeks of preparing for a TV commercial shoot. She could have retreated to the bedroom but chose instead to rest where she could remain part of the household’s movement.
When my sister pulled schoolwork all-nighters with her boyfriend in the living room, Mama would determinedly nap on that same sofa, her presence a subtle boundary.
I also watched Papa nap on the sofa once, one foot resting on his knee, legs crossed. We argued earlier that day. Or well, I crossed a line and said something hurtful.
I stood at the edge of the living room, watching for any slight movement of his foot that would tell me he was awake. When it shifted twice, I took it as my signal. I approached him. Sat next to him, hugged him, and told him I was sorry. To my surprise, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
One afternoon in college, my then-boyfriend sat on the edge of the sofa. His posture unnaturally straight as he introduced himself to my parents.
The sofas saw many more visitors come and go.
We moved the furniture around the house a few times, trying different layouts as our needs changed.
They were silent observers as our home grew quieter — with my sister and I constantly rushing between school and work, while Papa’s dialysis appointments filled our weekly routine.
It’s been 6 years since Papa passed, but those sofas still stand in the living room.
It’s strange to think how the furniture has outlived him.
Now they’re often empty except for when my sister’s siberian huskies claim them for afternoon naps, their teeth marks annoyingly etched into the armrests. Dogs comfortable on furniture that the humans find unbearable. Hah.
Sometimes I still try to reimagine what our living room could be with plush couches and soft pillows. But I’ve stopped trying to replace those narra sofas.
They’ve earned their place — not because they’re comfortable or fashionable, but because they’ve become witnesses to our lives.
They remind me that comfort and familiarity isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s rigid, unyielding.
We come to value things (as we do with people) not because they’re easy or comfortable, but because they’re reliably present. Always there, holding us up, even as everything else around us changes.
Compressing My World Made it Better
On finding community in smaller spaces
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I asked my teammate, feeling betrayed.
I’d just found out that many people felt I was too passive and ineffective as a leader.
“Because they knew you’d take it to heart,” he explained. “They think you don’t respond well to criticism.”
And there I was proving his point.
I was stunned. The peer feedback wasn’t even something I was supposed to react to; it was meant for internal assessment, not confrontation.
But here I was, messaging someone to defend myself. Trying to explain away perceptions that weren’t even directly shared with me.
I replayed every interaction I had with these colleagues, searching for clues I missed, trying to figure out how I could convince them they were wrong about me.
This was my default setting: hypervigilant defender, chronic people-pleaser, the person who would rather die than have someone think poorly of me.
I’d perfected this role since childhood — the good kid who never rocked the boat, who smiled through discomfort, who dreaded classroom icebreakers. I’d overthink my response, watching classmates’ laughter fade when it was my turn to speak, my carefully constructed answer flopping because I couldn’t just relax and be myself.
Being a people-pleaser was one thing.
But realizing I was bisexual? A minority within a minority? In a conservative country?
My social anxiety just hit the jackpot.
I grappled with all this well into my 30s.
My therapist says, “You need to compress your world.” His expression thoughtful but firm. “Focus on the spaces and people that feel safe.”
Compress my world. Huh.
In a culture where we’re constantly told to expand — our networks, our influence, our ambitions — the idea of deliberately making my world smaller seemed counterintuitive.
“Quality over quantity. Think about who really matters.”
As my therapist says this, specific faces come to mind.
My mom and siblings. My nieces and nephews who’ve welcomed my partner into our family, calling her “Tita.”
The friends who showed up at my 30th birthday party — a spin class, of all things, because somehow that was my idea of fun.
The friends who reached out with encouraging words when I shared my essays on Instagram. Those who said “I felt that” and “Please keep writing.”
My therapist put words to what I’d already been unconsciously doing. Compressing my world.
I gradually stopped going to church after a pastor slipped out comments about ‘lifestyle choices’ and sugarcoated it with ‘love the sinner, hate the sin.’ And after a church member shared his testimony about being ‘formerly gay’ and now happily married to a woman, pushing that harmful conversion therapy narrative.
I muted the social media accounts of acquaintances whose religious posts sent me spiraling back into shame.
I passed off invitations to events where I knew I’d have to hide parts of myself or hope people wouldn’t ask about my relationship status.
Compressing my world didn’t make it smaller — it made it deeper.
With each boundary I set, I felt a strange mix of guilt and relief.
The guilt spoke in the voices I grew up hearing: “This is unnatural.” “You need the church community.” “What will people think?”
But the relief? The relief spoke in my own voice, growing stronger with each decision: “I am safe here.” “I don’t have to hide parts of myself.” “I can just be.”
The most surprising discovery was that compressing my world didn’t make it smaller — it made it deeper. In these safer, smaller spaces, conversations went beyond surface pleasantries.
At our hetero friends’ wedding reception, I sat next to my college girl friends. In the downtime, we chatted about our girlfriends.
While we celebrated our friends’ big, beautiful wedding, we acknowledged the ache of possibly not having our own. Maybe not in this country.
There was comfort in not having to explain that pain before expressing it.
I found peace in knowing my faith could be deeply personal and complex.
Compressing my world freed me from the anxiety of the faceless jury I’d always imagined watching my life.
I realized I didn’t need the approval of people I rarely saw. I didn’t need to convince relatives that my identity was valid. I didn’t need to come out to every person I met, nor pick fights and defend myself against homophobic comments on social media.
What I needed was to make peace with myself.
To deconstruct beliefs that hurt me and rebuild from the pieces that stayed. I realized I could love God and honor my spirituality without being bound by rigid interpretations that have often marginalized and hurt people.
I found peace in knowing my faith could be deeply personal and complex.
My world is smaller these days, but it feels more spacious. There’s room to stretch out, to speak honestly.
There’s safety in these compressed spaces — not the false safety of conformity, but the true safety of being fully known and accepted.
Sometimes I still feel the pull to expand, to please, to perform. Old habits die hard.
But then I remember: not every space deserves my presence, not every situation deserves my energy, and not every person deserves my vulnerability.
In the boundaries, I found myself.
In the smaller circles, I found my people.
In the compression, I can finally breathe.
Note: This essay was drafted with AI assistance. All ideas, experiences, anecdotes, and final editing are entirely my own.
