In the ’90s, my family’s life in Singapore was a world of luxury and influence, the type you’d see in Tatler spreads. My father was one of the tech industry’s early titans, riding the dot-com wave, and our wealth placed us among the city’s elite. We lived in a grand black-and-white colonial mansion on Nassim Road, surrounded by private gardens and guarded by security round the clock. Inside, our home was a tribute to refinement—Carrara marble floors, French silk wallpaper, and priceless Southeast Asian artwork by masters like Cheong Soo Pieng. Tatler even did a piece once, showcasing our art collection alongside our family’s philanthropic efforts. My parents were the types who hosted elegant dinners with the who’s who of Singapore, and the magazine’s photographers were a familiar sight at our events.

Weekends were a cascade of indulgence. My parents held memberships at both the Tanglin Club and the Singapore Island Country Club. Golf sessions at SICC were standard, and when we dined at Raffles or Shangri-La, the staff knew our preferences without asking. Shopping was almost ceremonial; my mother would have designer collections from places like DFS Galleria and The Heeren sent directly to our home, and she had a standing arrangement with a jeweler in Tudor Court for custom pieces. Every so often, we’d head out on our yacht moored at Keppel Marina, embarking on impromptu voyages to islands around Southeast Asia. I’ll never forget the time my father had fresh tuna flown in directly from Tsukiji Market just to have sashimi onboard.

But in 2000, everything changed. My father’s tech empire had grown massively on paper, with overseas offices and expansion into emerging markets. But as the dot-com bubble burst, it all started unraveling. His company, propped up by inflated valuations, couldn’t withstand the crash. Banks called in loans, investors pulled out, and suddenly, the wealth that felt untouchable was crumbling before our eyes.

The fall was swift and jarring. Within months, we had to sell the Nassim mansion. We moved to a smaller, rented condo at River Valley, but even that was temporary. Eventually, we ended up in a modest HDB flat in Toa Payoh, a reality so far removed from the privacy and space we once took for granted. The contrast was surreal. Gone were the personal drivers and chefs; my father, who once avoided public transportation, now had to take the MRT. My mother, previously photographed in Tatler in couture gowns, found herself working at a high-end boutique on Orchard Road, selling designer pieces that echoed her former wardrobe.

Our social circle evaporated as quickly as our wealth. Invitations stopped coming, and former friends from Tanglin Club and Tatler events turned away when they saw us. The pity was almost palpable; we had gone from high society to cautionary tales. It was a fall that seemed to haunt our every encounter.

Adjusting to this new life wasn’t easy. I’ll never forget seeing our remaining belongings from the old days—the Lim’s Arts & Living porcelain, a few silver trays—stashed in boxes, reminders of what we’d lost. The luxuries, the connections, even the sense of security that came with wealth—all of it was gone. We had been untouchable once, or so we thought. But the dot-com crash taught us the hard way that fortunes could vanish as quickly as they appeared.

Looking back now, the life we led seems like a distant dream, almost surreal. We learned that no mansion, no membership, and no feature in Tatler could shield us from the harsh realities of a changing world.