This year, the people closest to me—and the people closest to our businesses—know we’ve been on an absolute tear.
In May, we pivoted our café business. We revamped Stoked.sg into Pastaaah!, hoping a refreshed menu with more affordable options would revitalise things. That meant menu changes, cooking at home, recording recipes, and teaching our team a new system—all right before the Downtown East equipment started arriving.
In June, we opened a 9,000 sqft space at Downtown East. It wasn’t just “open doors and go”—it meant planning renovations, coordinating with factories, dealing with landlords, logistics, contractors, and equipment. There were nights we were opening crates and moving equipment through the dark just to keep everything on schedule.
On top of that, we were building out multiple sites concurrently (not sequentially) —Woodlands, Bishan North, Serangoon North, Marymount, and now at a site in the CBD. The CBD site alone is 8,800 sqft, where we’re opening an Ark Grit and a Fit Bloc side by side.
The hardest part wasn’t any single project. It was the overlap.
There were stretches where I was planning one project while executing another—while still carrying the day-to-day responsibilities across Movement First, Javy Sports, and everything else in the ecosystem. It’s the kind of pace that looks exciting from the outside, but inside it’s constant context-switching, constant problem-solving, and very little space to recover.
And then I made it harder on myself.
I took on a shophouse project for a client—something I initially thought would be straightforward: proposing an outdoor children’s bouldering wall, an artwork component, and a timeline that made sense, with a July completion target. But it became one of those projects that looks simple until reality hits.
There were site constraints. Safety clearances near an old tree. Existing walls that weren’t straight because of legacy construction methods. Design revisions. Coordination between architects, consultants, and engineers—areas that aren’t my natural comfort zone—plus the pressure of everything needing decisions at the same time, right at year end… precisely when my other builds were peaking.
Add to that the usual obligations: schools and government projects coming in during year end, procurement timelines, budgets, deliveries. I had planned a holiday six months ago for November, not expecting everything to converge into one intense bottleneck. But it did.
Somewhere along the way, my energy ran out.
I could feel warning signs weeks before—but I kept telling myself, “Just a few more weeks. Just push past this.” By Christmas, I was still showing up. On 25 December, I went back to the CBD facility to get work done. Shortly after, I fell sick. And when I got sick, something else happened: my motivation didn’t just dip—it crashed.
Still, I turned up every day, even if it was just to do things bit by bit.
By 30 December, I felt mentally better because I started moving again—clearing tasks, regaining momentum. But what truly pulled me back wasn’t a productivity hack or a pep talk.
It was remembering where all of this started.
More than 10–15 years ago, Movement First began as a hobby—something scrappy that started from a dormitory, then an uncle’s workshop, then my grandmother’s place, before we ever had an industrial unit as a proper warehouse. Back then, it was just a young guy building something because he cared.
Today, across all our companies, we’ve built teams of around 50 people. I’m not saying I’m the most important person in the room, my partners thus far seem to have more endurance than me, though we are all tired. But remembering that something we started more than a decade ago has grown into something that provides good jobs and real stability for so many people—that hits me deeply.
That brings me pride. And it brings me responsibility.
It also forces a question I’ve been wrestling with: once you reach a certain point of success, should you still push harder?
The truth is, if I stopped expanding, let the businesses stabilise, and paid myself properly according to the net profits of what we own, I’d be comfortably earning more than what 20-year-old Jeremy ever envisioned. Not billionaire territory. Not the ultra-top. But enough that money stops being a strong motivator.
And that’s where things get dangerous—because when money becomes “nice to have” rather than “need to have,” it can quietly kill your drive unless you have something bigger to chase.
Even as early as my second or third business, I was already earning comfortably. But instead of taking comfort, I kept reinvesting into building—into other ventures, other bets, other long-term plays. That pattern has brought a lot of growth… but it also means I’ve entered intense seasons like this before. I know the mental exhaustion is temporary. I know it passes.
But knowing that doesn’t make it easy while you’re inside it.
Because you still carry the pressure to deliver the best possible product for customers. The pressure to earn back investment fast. The pressure to take care of staff—bonuses, stability, good working conditions. The pressure to do right by partners and investors who believe in you.
And on top of all that, the operational details still matter: buying the right equipment, ensuring it arrives on time, installing it properly, making sure contractors deliver quality. These will deliver the best customer experience.
It all stacks.
2025 has been a very tough year for me. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m grateful for that.
My hope for 2026 is simple: build a stronger, more capable team, and offload more of the responsibilities I’m still carrying personally—so I can recover properly, lead better, and be more disciplined about rest.
Not because I want to slow down forever. But because I want to last.
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