Edric Teo

When I became an uncle, I didn’t expect it to be this fun. It’s like getting to be a kid again, only this time I have the freedom and energy to enjoy it.

There’s a rare sweetness in being an uncle. I’m not the parent, so I skip the stress, but I’m close enough to share the joy. I get the laughter, the hugs, and the wonder without the sleepless nights.

When I’m with my nephew, time bends. One moment I’m an adult with meetings and bills. The next, I’m crawling on the floor, shooting bubble guns, building up block towers only to see them destroyed by a baby Godzilla. For a few hours, the world feels simple again. He reminds me of who I was before life became serious, curious, fearless, always asking questions. Watching him explore helps me remember what it’s like to see everything as new.

I often forget how to play. I start worrying about looking foolish. But being an uncle gives me a pass. I can act ridiculous and call it bonding. We race along shopping mall corridors. We say byebye to a blue frog statue. We get into random laughter chains triggered by each other. And in those moments, something inside me unclenches. My adult world runs on deadlines and self-control. His world runs on wonder. Spending time with him resets the balance.

Being an uncle gives me the perfect balance. I’m close enough to be part of his world, but still outside the daily grind that wears parents down. When he’s tired or cranky, I can hand him back. When he’s full of energy, I’m all in. His parents carry the weight of routine. I get to be the spark, the one who arrives with a silly idea. And because I’m not always there, every visit feels special.

Watching him grow feels like looking into a mirror that reflects the best parts of myself. When he laughs, I remember what joy used to sound like. When he falls and tries again, I remember what persistence used to feel like. He doesn’t say much yet, but he teaches me plenty, patience, presence, and the art of seeing ordinary things as extraordinary.

Our time together has its own rhythm. Some moments are loud and wild. Others are quiet, lying on the mattress or staring into blank space when he’s getting tired. That rhythm keeps it alive. Fast, then slow. Laughter, then calm. Words, then none. It’s the same rhythm good writing has, the one that keeps me turning the page without realising why.

Being a funcle isn’t a smaller version of being a parent. It has its own kind of magic. I don’t raise the child, I help shape his memories. I’m the adult who shows that growing up doesn’t mean growing dull. I share through how I live, not what I say, showing that joy and seriousness can share the same room, and that love doesn’t need a plan.

In the end, being a funcle isn’t about reliving my childhood. It’s about realising it never left. It was just waiting for a small hand to pull it back out of me. That’s why it’s so fun. I don’t just watch him grow. I grow lighter too.

Last year I noticed something new about people. It wasn’t a big discovery, more like learning to see a color that was always there. I started picking up on when people said thank you.

What struck me wasn’t the words themselves, but the effortlessness. For some people, “thank you” just slips out. No hesitation, no calculation. It’s almost like breathing.

If you want to know whether gratitude is instinctive or just a performance, there’s a simple way to find out. Do something small for the person, the kind of thing that if a stranger did it, they would definitely thank them for. Open a door. Fetch something they asked for. Then wait. Do they say thanks?

Often you’ll see a divide. Some always do. Some never do. The difference isn’t circumstance. It’s whether the habit has sunk deep enough that it no longer requires thought.

That’s why the absence of thanks stands out. It isn’t about rudeness in any dramatic sense. It’s that the interaction feels incomplete, like a sentence cut off before the last word. Gratitude is the small closure that makes the exchange whole.

Maybe it’s a matter of upbringing. Manners, after all, are usually taught when we’re young. We don’t always know why. We’re told not to interrupt, not to play with food, to say thank you. At the time it feels arbitrary.

Last evening I was reminded of this. At dinner, my nephew started playing with the utensils. I knew instantly it was wrong, but I couldn’t have explained why. That’s the nature of manners. We absorb them long before we can articulate them.

Effortless manners work the same way. When they’ve been built into us early, they surface without effort. If not, they always look like a costume, something you put on only when you remember.

We’re remarkably good at adapting to things. I noticed this the other day in a public restroom that smelled terrible. At first I was repulsed, but after a few minutes I barely noticed it anymore. My brain had simply adjusted.

This adaptation ability is one of our greatest strengths as humans. It’s how we survive difficult circumstances and push through challenges that would otherwise overwhelm us. But it’s also one of our greatest weaknesses.

Because we adapt so well (like a boiling frog), we often don’t notice when we’re slowly sinking into bad situations. The person who complains constantly becomes background noise. The toxic workplace starts feeling normal. The drama-filled relationship just becomes “how things are.”

Jim Rohn shared an anecdote about someone asking him for advice about their recurring problems. And he responded with, “I don’t know, beats me. The best I’ve been able to figure out is those kind of things always happen to people like you.” We often become the common denominator in our own problems.

The first time you find yourself in a toxic environment, you might not recognize it. And that’s understandable. But if you notice the pattern and stayed anyway, that’s really on you, and you can’t really blame anyone else. You’ve chosen to remain in that environment.

Of course, life isn’t always black and white. Sometimes what feels like a permanent problem is just temporary discomfort. It’s the difference between stepping in shit and catching a whiff of a fart. One sticks with you, the other just passes through. The goal is figuring out which is which.

A simple litmus test is by waiting. If you stay in a situation longer and the negative aspects persist or worsen, you’re probably dealing with something systemic rather than temporary. Time reveals the true nature of most environments.

Some people try to fix toxic environments by adding positive elements, bringing in good people, adding new policies, spraying metaphorical air freshener. But I’ve never seen it work in practice.

Surprisingly, there’s value in revisiting a bad environment. When you go through something truly awful, it sharpens your sense of what good actually feels like. And the good news is, unlike a boiling frog, this time you know you’re in a shitty environment.