This mother rose from depression to sew hope for sick children

New Straits Times

11-05-2025

AT first glance, it's just a doll — a small, unassuming albeit cute animal creation made of socks, buttons for eyes and a stitched-on smile. But to Cordelia Lee Suet Fun, or Cordy as she's fondly known, each doll carries a heartbeat, a memory, and a story stitched into its seams.
Behind every thread lies a piece of her — a mother's love, a woman's resilience and a soul that, despite being weathered by life's tempests, still radiates warmth and light. "I never imagined my life would take this path," begins the 53-year-old, voice soft, edged with memory.
Adding, she declares: "But I believe our experiences shape us. And somehow, the pain I carried led me to this place — to making these little dolls, to singing, speaking and teaching others how to find peace within themselves."
LIFE'S ROLLER COASTER
Cordy's story is one of transformation born from trials. A mother of one, she grew up in Ipoh, Perak, before moving to Kuala Lumpur at the age of 11. Her journey began in law school, culminating in a degree that would eventually gather dust, sidelined by life's unpredictable turns.
After graduating in 1997, Cordy felt completely burnt out from years of studying. The thought of sitting for the Certificate of Legal Practice (CLP), notorious for being difficult to pass, felt overwhelming.
"I remember thinking, what the heck — I already have my degree. I'll just put it aside for now," she recalls with a small laugh, adding: "If one day I feel like practicing law, I'll take it out then."
Eager to experience life beyond textbooks and lecture halls, Cordy landed a job at Time Wireless, where a kind assistant manager took a chance on her. "She told me, 'We're starting something new under Risk Management — you've got a law degree, come in and see what happens.'"
The bubbly Perakian jumped at the opportunity and stayed with the company for a few years. But eventually, as corporate restructurings took their toll, Cordy began to feel adrift. At her father's suggestion, she joined his IT business, taking on administrative and banking responsibilities. But beneath the steady rhythm of office life, storms were quietly brewing.
In her late 30s, Cordy faced a series of personal upheavals — a marriage that unravelled, the unbearable grief of infertility, and a growing sense of emptiness. "I desperately wanted to be a mother," she confides softly, adding: "We tried IVF, but it was financially and emotionally draining. In the end, I had to let go of that dream. And it broke something inside me."
Years of bottling up her emotions came to a head. "I couldn't control it anymore. I felt chaotic, hopeless. I had insomnia, and my mind was a constant storm of overthinking."
It was then, amid the debris of her spirit, that Cordy stumbled upon meditation. Nothing elaborate — just simple, non-religious breathing exercises. But those few moments of stillness each day became her anchor.
Recalls Cordy: "I started with just five minutes a day. And it worked. It was like magic. I felt calmer. My mind stopped racing. I started reclaiming my life, bit by bit."
Soon, friends noticed the difference. One asked her what she was doing. "I told her about the meditation, and she wanted to try it too. It snowballed from there. A few of us began practising together casually," shares Cordy.
As her inner world transformed, the people around her noticed too. Friends began asking what she was doing differently. "One of them told me, 'You're so much calmer now. The way you carry yourself, the way you talk — it's different.'"
Curious, a few of them asked to try the technique with her. The small gatherings grew into a comforting space where friends sought solace from their own anxieties. One of them even predicted, "I believe one day you'll teach this professionally."
Cordy laughed it off at the time. "It felt so out of my league. I thought, for myself and friends, sure — but as an instructor? Never crossed my mind."
But life, as she would come to learn, has its own plans.
By 2010, the idea no longer felt far-fetched. Cordy saw the significant impact these simple breathing and relaxation methods had on people. The positive feedback encouraged her to keep going. Today, she humbly refers to herself as a non-religious meditation teacher — someone who helps others reconnect with themselves, de-stress and regain a sense of calm in a noisy world.
It was during these years of healing that another act of quiet kindness would unexpectedly shape her journey.
One day, a close friend reached out to tell Cordy that their mutual friend, Pei Lee, had fallen terribly sick. "'She's paralysed now… and she wants to see us,' my friend had told me. So, we decided to visit her. I remember how sad I felt when I clapped eyes on her. She looked really frail. It hurt because I didn't expect to see her like that."
Their ensuing conversation felt heavy, and words simply seemed inadequate in the face of such helplessness. Then, Cordy suddenly remembered something — a small doll she'd made, resting quietly in her bag.
Eyes lighting up, she shares: "I quickly took it out and showed it to her. I said, 'Hey, just to let you know… I made this. What do you think?'" It was a rabbit doll — far from perfect, its stitches uneven, its features simple. But Pei Lee's reaction was immediate.
"She touched it, and she smiled," recalls Cordy, before adding softly: "It was the first time I saw her smile since I arrived." That fleeting moment shifted something inside her. An idea sparked.
Remembers Cordy: "I asked her, 'Would you like me to make a doll for you? A dog… a cat?' And she thought about it, then replied, 'I'd like a dog.'"
Cordy chuckles as she recounts what came next. "I told her, 'Can you wait for me? I haven't learned how to make a dog yet'. She laughed and said, 'It's okay. Take your time'."
Determined to fulfil that promise, Cordy returned to the same shop where she'd first learned to make sock dolls. "I signed up for a three-class package," she shares, shaking her head with a smile. "I was so nervous. I had no idea how to make a dog."
The second doll she created was meant to resemble Snoopy. But it didn't quite turn out that way. "I remember being so embarrassed. The ears were lopsided, the whole thing was senget," she recalls with a grin, before adding: "I stood there thinking, should I even give this to her? It looked terrible."
But a promise was a promise.
Shares Cordy: "I brought it to her anyway. And the moment I handed it over, I started apologising. 'The eyes are a bit off… the ears are uneven — sorry ah, not so nice.'" But Pei Lee didn't seem to mind. She held the Snoopy doll, touched its head and smiled — that same quiet, gentle smile that Cordy had seen before.
Continuing, Cordy says softly: "That moment… it meant something. It made me realise it wasn't about how perfect the doll looked. It was about the feeling it gave."
Encouraged by that, Cordy promised Pei Lee another creation. "'Okay,' I told her, 'Next one, I'll be learning how to make a cat. You wait for me, okay?' And she laughed, saying, 'Sure. I'm not going anywhere.'"
Cordy managed to complete the cat doll too, but by then, Pei Lee's health had deteriorated. "I couldn't meet her, so my friend passed it to her for me," she recalls quietly, adding: "And not long after that — about six months later — she passed away."
Her passing left an ache in Cordy's heart, but more than anything, it left an important lesson. Eyes alight, she says: "I remembered the impact of those dolls. That a simple, handmade thing, created with love, could bring such comfort. It made me think — a doll isn't just a toy. It can be a companion. A friend. A silent source of solace."
A NEW WORLD
Then came another seismic shift: her son.
In 2015, Cordy gave birth to her long-awaited child from her marriage with her second husband. But joy was quickly tempered by fear. Her son, Patrick, a delicate, bright-eyed baby, was born with biliary atresia, a rare liver disease.
At just 1.5 months old, he underwent a Kasai procedure, a surgery to delay liver deterioration. The journey was fraught with uncertainty, hospital visits and emotional turmoil.
"I remember crying myself to sleep every night," recalls Cordy, adding solemnly: "The fear of losing him was overwhelming. No mother is ever prepared for that. You carry a child for nine months, dreaming of a future. And then, you're told he's sick. It breaks you."
Despite the challenges, Cordy found strength in small moments of joy. She employed simple coping methods like singing and reading to Patrick, using body language to communicate love and encouragement when words failed.
During her son's hospital stays, Cordy noticed the comfort he derived from soft toys gifted by kind individuals. These toys became his companions, providing emotional support and a sense of normalcy amidst the clinical environment.
Inspired by the impact the toys had on her son, Cordy decided that she'd make the sock dolls for her son during her long waits by his bedside each time he went to the hospital for tests. "When I started making for my son, I also made for the kids in the ward. I wanted to create something that could bring the same comfort to the other sick children."
Since 2018, Cordy has been crafting animal-themed sock dolls and gifting them to hospitalised children. Each doll is made with love, representing a symbol of hope and resilience.
Patrick, now 8 years old and thriving despite being neurodivergent with dyslexia and ADHD, often accompanies his mother on these hospital visits. Dressed in his favourite Spider-Man costume, he hands out the dolls, spreading smiles and joy.
Shares Cordy: "Seeing the children's faces light up when they receive a doll is the most rewarding experience. It's a reminder that even small acts of kindness can make a big difference."
Her son, now an avid runner, she confides proudly, remains her greatest teacher. Shares Cordy: "He's taught me resilience, patience, and the beauty of simple joys. When I see him smile, everything else fades away."
Today, Cordy's life is a beautiful mosaic of roles — motivational speaker, singer-songwriter under Jingles Management, non-religious meditation teacher and sock doll maker. Through every medium, she channels one core mission: to uplift.
"I use my voice, my hands and my heart to remind people they're not alone," she says, adding: "We all carry burdens. But we can turn them into something beautiful."
Asked what keeps her moving forward, Cordy's gaze softens. "Maybe it's stubbornness," she laughs quietly, before adding softly: "Maybe it's hope. But I believe in turning pain into purpose. Life might not go as planned, but it can still be meaningful. Sometimes, the unplanned paths lead us to where we truly belong."
As our conversation winds down, Cordy picks up one of her sock dolls that she'd been working on before I arrived. Its button eyes gleam softly under the café's bright downlight, its stitched smile somewhat poignant.
"I always say," Cordy concludes, voice thick with emotion, "When you can't find the light, be the light. And sometimes, even a little sock doll can be that light."