I grew up in the 90s, in an old 3-room HDB flat in Toa Payoh. My parents bought the flat in 1992 when I was 1 for $150,000, a hefty sum at the time, but it gave our family of 5 a place to call home.
Our home had steel louvered windows that rattled in the wind, cool white tiles in the living room, and parquet floors in the bedrooms, a small touch of luxury in a modest space. The bathroom was tiny, barely enough for the 5 of us, but somehow, it worked. Over the next 15 years, that little flat became the backdrop to everything: first friends, first fights, and first heartbreaks.
A love-hate relationship with the straight-line layout
Image credit: Google Maps
As with many older 3-room resale flats, our home was laid out in a straight line. Stand at the front door, and you could see straight through to the back wall of the kitchen. As a child, I loved that. It took only two glances to spot everyone in the house. Young me would even try to scare neighbours walking past because I could hear their footsteps before they appeared.
With only two bedrooms, my two siblings and I shared roughly 100 square feet. Back then, it felt like the best arrangement in the world. Endless card games of Old Maid or 10-cents ban luck, laughter echoing off the walls, and a closeness only a cramped space could create.
During Chinese New Year, the flat magically transformed into a sardine can full of laughing relatives. You couldn’t move without brushing past someone, but somehow, it was the happiest kind of chaos.
And when it wasn’t CNY, it was gaming season, my siblings and I glued to the PlayStation 1 or 2, racing in Need for Speed or conquering China in Dynasty Warriors 4 while my parents watched, amused.
A lack of privacy & ventilation
Image used for illustrative purposes only.
Image credit: irememberSG
As I grew older, the flat’s limitations became clearer. Privacy was a myth. The front bedroom window faced the corridor, so any passerby could easily peek in. Ventilation was poor, so we had to choose between melting in silence or airing our lives out for everyone to hear.
In our bedroom, my sister, the only girl, claimed the top bunk as her fortress of privacy. My siblings brought their partners home occasionally, but no one ever stayed the night. I didn’t understand why until I had a partner of my own.
Even inside the room, we bickered endlessly over whether to keep the window open or shut. The slightest fart would send us running to the back of the house, a childhood lesson in quick reflexes and survival instincts.
“BUYING RED WHIP @@@@@@@@@@@@@”
Image credit: Theophay
When our family finally got wireless broadband, it felt like stepping into the future. Before that, we had the 56k dial-up modem, which meant someone always yelled, “Don’t use the phone, I’m online!” The internet brought new kinds of fights, who got to play MapleStory or Counter-Strike first, but also a new kind of togetherness.
The easily forgotten warmth of community in the heartlands
Image credit: Daniel Sin
Even though our flat was small, life outside its four walls felt wide and endless. Once you stepped out the front door, the neighbourhood came alive with a mix of sounds, smells, and faces that made every day feel full.
Life in the block was full of these little sensory details. The smell of cooking drifted along the corridor, telling you what each family was having for dinner: spicy curry, steaming noodles, or fried rice from last night’s leftovers. To me, it felt comforting, like being wrapped in a giant cloud of “home”.
If one of our neighbours cooked too much, we’d be handed a plate of food just for being nearby. Those small acts, an extra bowl of curry, or a share of freshly steamed siew mai made the block feel communal and a little chaotic. A one-big-family kind of messy, in the best way possible.
Downstairs was the playground, and for us kids, it might as well have been Escape Theme Park. Every day was an adventure: catching, ice and freeze, climbing, and inventing games only we understood.
I had a neighbour a few years younger than me, and our “playdates” often ended in a full-blown water fight, both of us soaked from using our parents’ plant spray bottles as weapons while pretending we were secret agents.
Image credit: Gateball.com.au
The older folks had their own version of fun too. They played a game called gateball, which I swore was some sort of mini-golf. I had no idea if they were any good, but the sound of the balls clashing still brings me back to those slow, golden afternoons.
Sometimes, on trips to the wet market with my mom, I’d see the same uncles and aunties from the gateball court returning with bags of groceries, looking like they’d conquered the world. That was the rhythm of life: simple, predictable, and full of warmth.
Image credit: Thefishermancarti
The void deck had its own stories too. When the badminton court was taken, we’d play there, our laughter echoing off the concrete pillars. But more often, it became the neighbourhood’s stage for its biggest moments: one week a Malay wedding filled with laughter and gamelan music, another week a Chinese funeral with incense smoke curling into the air.
Those scenes were just part of life. You didn’t question them. The block wasn’t just a collection of flats, it was an ecosystem of lives overlapping, a kind of extended family you didn’t choose, but grew up alongside anyway.
And maybe, in some ways, that kampung spirit still lingers. It’s softer now, hidden beneath locked gates and quieter corridors, but when a neighbour still shares extra food, or helps carry a heavy bag, it feels like a small reminder that those old bonds never truly left.
Growing up in an old 3-room HDB flat
Back then, my parents didn’t worry much about where I was. They knew I’d be downstairs at the playground, running around with the neighbourhood kids until it was time to come home for dinner. Life was simple, and the world felt small but safe. Of course, not everything was sunshine, there were fights, quarrels, and the occasional tears.
But in hindsight, those squabbles were lessons. They taught me people skills, how to stand my ground, and how to navigate conflicts, things I probably wouldn’t have learned if I’d spent all my time glued to a screen. Funny how I became more introverted as I got older (INFP here), but those early years definitely gave me social grounding I still draw from today.
Living in that flat shaped my family bonds. The space may have been small, but it pulled us closer together, literally and figuratively. I’m still close to my siblings, my parents, even my extended family. Part of that came from learning how to share life in tight quarters where privacy was a rare luxury.
That old 3-room also taught me resilience. We couldn’t change houses or upgrade our circumstances whenever life got tough. You just learned to adapt, make do, and keep going.
For illustration purposes.
Image credit: Singapore Stock Photo
I never knew why my parents didn’t think of upgrading to a bigger flat, perhaps it didn’t matter. And the idea of living with what we had was deeply ingrained since my youth days. This mindset carried me through tougher stages later in life, especially during army days when “suck it up and keep going” became second nature.
Today, I have the luxury of choosing my own home, and I still love 3-room flats. I might even get one myself. I can’t fully put my finger on why, maybe it’s nostalgia, or maybe it’s the small, comforting space that never feels empty. Somehow, a bigger flat might feel too vast, too impersonal.
There’s a warmth in a home that’s just the right size, where every corner holds a memory, every wall has a story. Because at the end of the day, that flat mattered. It wasn’t just walls, tiles, and windows, it was where I grew up, where I learned who I was, and where I discovered what “home” really means.
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All images used are for illustrative purposes only.
Cover image adapted from: Heritage SG Memories, irememberSG
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