What Ozzy's Final Bow Taught Me About Going Out On Our Own Terms.

Photo: Ozzy Osbourne

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ozzy Osbourne lately.

I'm not an Ozzy fan, if I'm being honest, but he was always there, blaring from someone’s stereo, showing up on MTV, or stumbling through the chaos of suburban life on The Osbournes. 

I didn’t seek him out, but I didn’t have to.

As a Gen-Xer, his music and persona were part of the background noise of my growing-up years.

So when I heard that he passed away just weeks after his final concert, it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. There was something heartbreakingly poetic about it, like an ending within an ending, wrapped in the kind of rock and roll mythology that defined so much of our generation’s cultural landscape.

What struck me even more was the fact that he performed that show in Birmingham, despite Parkinson’s, despite a body that no longer did what he wanted it to. He still showed up. Still chose to sing one last time. 

I saw a few clips of the concert online, and even though I’m not a fan, I found myself whispering, "Wow." 

There was a kind of grit to it. A sense of dignity in defiance.

The part that really got me, though, was when he sang “Mama, I’m Coming Home.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. This man, who spent decades as the Prince of Darkness, chose to go out with something soft. Something tender. Something that said: I’m done, and I’m at peace with that.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

Watching it all unfold, even from behind a screen, left me with one clear impression: Ozzy went out on his own terms, in his own legendary way.

And it got me thinking: What does it really mean to go out on your own terms?

For Ozzy, it was a final concert. One last bow in front of a crowd that had loved him for decades.

But for the rest of us, those without the stage or the spotlight, what does that look like?

I’ve started to realise that going out on your own terms doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be public. It doesn’t even have to be big. It just has to be intentional.

Maybe it’s finishing that novel you’ve been meaning to write for the past twenty years.

Maybe it’s continuing to show up for your kids, even when they don’t need you in the same way anymore.

Maybe it’s keeping your sense of humour intact as your joints get louder every morning.

For me, it’s writing posts like this: trying to make sense of the moments that shape us, and leaving a trail of thoughts behind as a kind of legacy.

I think a lot about legacy these days. 

About what kind of trail I want to leave behind. 

As a Gen-Xer, I grew up with a quiet kind of rebellion. Learning not to expect too much, keeping my guard up, and figuring things out as I went along. 

That independent streak? I still have it. 

And maybe it’s what will help me age with some semblance of grace. Because I don’t want anyone else scripting my ending. I want to write it myself.

That’s why I’ve been thinking more seriously about living with intention. Not just floating through the days, but really asking myself the tough questions: What matters most? What would I regret not doing? How do I want to be remembered?

Sometimes that means uncomfortable conversations about ageing, death, and everything in between. Sometimes it means saying no to things that drain me, and yes to things that spark something in me, even if they scare me. And sometimes, it just means sitting down with a cup of coffee, opening my laptop, and writing it all down.

I think that’s what Ozzy did, in his own way. 

That final show felt almost choreographed: the hometown crowd, the original band, the songs that defined a generation. And then, a mic drop exit. 

Not everyone gets a finale like that. 

Most of us won’t. But we do get small choices, every day, that shape the ending we’ll one day have.

This past few weeks, we lost icons we grew up watching. 

Ozzy. Malcolm-Jamal Warner. Hulk Hogan. Icons who seemed larger than life. Their departures are starting to feel personal. 

They’re reminders that we’re entering a new season, whether we’re ready for it or not.

So I keep asking myself: How do I want to live this next chapter? What story am I still trying to tell?

Maybe the lesson isn’t about going out in a blaze of glory. 

Maybe it’s about going out as yourself, flawed, human, but still reaching for connection, for meaning, for presence.

Mama, I’m coming home indeed.

We all are, eventually.

The question is: what kind of journey do we want it to be?

10 Years Later… I'm Back (Sort Of)

Photo credit: Unsplash

So.

The last post on this blog was December 2015.

I know this because I just spent way too long scrolling through ten years of silence, and it's weird. It feels like a different person wrote all these posts so many years ago, someone with considerably more energy and an alarming number of exclamation points.

Despite feeling disconnected with my past self reading old posts on this site, I'm glad that one thing is constant: I never stopped reading. 

Thank god, because if I'd lost that too, this would be a very different (and much more depressing) comeback story.

I'm glad I've managed to keep up with my reading in the past decade. I may not read 100 novels a year like some kind of bookish hermit, but I read enough to keep my Goodreads account from looking completely abandoned. I've just... stopped talking about it.

Stopped writing about it.

Life got busy in that way it does when you're juggling everything at once, and somehow, sitting down to write a thoughtful blog post about books became a luxury I never quite had time for. Right up there with eight hours of sleep and eating lunch without someone asking me where their socks are.

But the books kept coming.

I still have the occasional late-night reading sessions that turn into early-morning regrets (and even more regret when my alarm goes off). Lunch breaks spent in a hidden café, alone with a paperback in hand. That guilty pleasure of sneaking in "just one more chapter" when I should have been doing literally anything else productive, like feeding my children to make sure they stay alive. You know, basic parenting stuff.

I have a decade's worth of unreviewed books rattling around in my head.

Stories that made me cry in waiting areas (and immediately look around to see if anyone noticed), characters I'm still thinking about years later like they're distant relatives I worry about, plot twists that genuinely made me gasp and then immediately want to text someone about, except I'd stopped being the person who did that kind of thing. Apparently, I became too cool for enthusiastic book texting. What a loss.

And that's the thing I miss most.

Not the reading, I never lost that, thankfully. But the processing. 

The thinking out loud about why a book worked or didn't. The joy of finding someone who loved the same obscure romance series and could discuss the problematic love interest with equal passion. The satisfaction of writing a review that helped someone else discover their next favorite story (or saved them from a terrible one).

Do people still write long-form posts? Or has that become an archaic practice, like using a phone book or remembering phone numbers? Have we all moved to short tweets and 15-second videos where I'd have to explain Pride and Prejudice in the time it takes to sneeze?

At fifty, I've realized something:

I don't actually care.

I don't care if book blogging is "still a thing" or if Blogger is considered ancient technology (though if it is, please don't tell me, I'm perimenopausal and thus, a tad bit fragile).

I don't care if three people read this or three hundred.

I do enough audience-building and strategic content creation over on my professional blog and LinkedIn for my career. This space is purely for fun. No analytics to check, no engagement rates to worry about, no strategic posting schedules. Just me, rambling about books like it's 2010.

I'm not trying to build another platform or grow a following.

I just want a place to pen my thoughts freely, and maybe—just maybe—reconnect with other book bloggers who still love talking about stories and haven't been completely consumed by the algorithm gods.

I just want my thoughts about books to go somewhere other than the running commentary in my head or a tweet that disappears into the void faster than my motivation to exercise.

But here's the thing:

This blog name, Ulat Buku in the City, doesn't quite fit anymore.

That name belonged to a different version of me. One who was trying so hard to be clever and relevant. A single bookworm obsessed with Sex and the City (and, well, living in one). Now I'm more likely to be reading with a cup of tea than a cosmopolitan, and honestly? That suits me better.

After much brainstorming with ChatGPT, Claude, and every other AI assistant I mess around with for fun (yes, I'm that person now), I've decided to rename this space:

Stories I Keep.

Because that's what this blog will be—a place to keep the stories that matter. The books. The shows. The characters and plotlines and ideas that stick around long after the final page or the end credits, along with some personal stories that I hope might resonate with someone else out there (or at least provide mild entertainment).

I've got ten years of book opinions all in my head, and frankly, that feels like a waste.

Some of those books deserve to be talked about. Some of those stories are still living rent-free in my brain, years later, refusing to pay emotional rent.

And I don't just want to write book reviews, though you'll definitely see some five-star gushes and the occasional "why did I finish this?" disaster (because apparently, I hate myself enough to finish books I'm not enjoying).

I want to write about all the things that come with being someone who's made stories a central part of their life.

Like the never-ending battle between my Kobo and Kindle (spoiler: they both have their place, and yes, I will die on this hill, probably clutching both devices).

Or how I manage my ridiculous TBR without completely losing my mind (spoiler alert: I haven't figured this out yet, but I keep trying).

Or my love-hate relationship with book-to-screen adaptations that range from "this is perfection" to "what did they DO to my beloved characters?"

Honestly?

I want to talk about more than just books. I've been watching shows and movies all these years too and I have opinions. Strong ones. Probably too many. I've learned things from stories, both on the page and on screen, that have genuinely shaped how I see the world. Sometimes even a random concert (like Ozzy Osbourne's farewell show) teaches you something profound about endings you never expected and that's definitely something worth writing about.

Stories I Keep feels right.

Because it's about all of it: the books, the screens, the snacks (so many snacks), the thoughts that come from a life spent consuming stories in whatever form they take.

So here I am, tentatively poking at this keyboard again, wondering if writing is like riding a bike (and hoping it's not, because I'm terrible at riding bikes).

Wondering if anyone else out there has ever taken a decade-long break from blogging but never stopped being a reader, a watcher, a person who thinks way too much about fictional people and their questionable life choices.

If you're reading this, whether you remember this little corner of the internet or you've just stumbled across it because the algorithm gods smiled upon you... hello 👋.

I've got some serious catching up to do.

And a lot of opinions to share.

Fair warning: I may have developed even stronger feelings about things in my old age. You've been warned.