Essay: Trying to pull myself back, little by little, in a season of confusion

I had not written anything like this for a very long time.

Most of what I had written in my life was composition for exams: a structure that could safely earn points, arguments arranged like cotton stuffing, each one packed into place. In that kind of writing, wandering thoughts were almost forbidden. Time was limited, memory was limited, and I was always afraid that once an idea drifted away, I would never catch it again.

I once asked my Chinese teacher why we were never encouraged to write wild and unruly things, why we had to sit in neat little boxes like examinees in an old imperial hall, producing texts whose endings could already be guessed from the opening lines. He laughed first, then put a hand on my shoulder and told me that if I could not even write disciplined prose well, how could I ever hope to write anything freer?

So why am I writing this now?

I do not really know. I only know that I felt trapped in the current of the times, unable to pull myself out, unable to find a direction. I wanted to use words to look inward. I did not know if anyone would ever read this. Most likely no one would. And even if they did, who would really pause to look at a splash in a river this fast?

I was 20 then, almost 21. Apparently that is old enough to be expected to have become something. I used to have ambitions. I wanted to become an adult who could not be easily defined. I wanted to become someone others would admire. I once believed there were endless possibilities waiting for me.

But when you actually arrive at this age, the word “should” becomes frightening

It feels like an invisible judge standing beside you at all times, reminding you that by a certain age you should have done certain things, should have become a certain type of person. You open your phone and see people getting offers, moving far away, building impressive projects, living lives that look certain. Then you put the phone down and face a self that feels anything but certain.

I was afraid of stopping for a while. Because the moment I stopped, I would hear the questions underneath the noise: What do you actually want? What are you really suited for? Are all these efforts moving you toward yourself, or are they only keeping you from falling behind everyone else?

I think many people who feel lost know this kind of moment. It is not laziness, and it is not a refusal to work hard. It is that the world suddenly becomes too large, the possible paths too many, the standards too loud. You are told to “be yourself,” while being pulled at the same time by a thousand subtle judgments.

Slowly, I realized my confusion was not a sign of laziness

It was a sign that I had begun to take myself seriously. When you are younger, dreams are light. Astronaut, writer, scientist: they are stars you can point at from far away. But as you grow older, dreams start rubbing against reality. You begin to understand that every choice excludes other choices, that every path has a cost, and that effort does not automatically produce clarity.

I used to want to become “someone others would envy.” Later I realized how empty that sentence really is. Envied by whom? For what? If your life is built mainly to satisfy someone else’s gaze, you may end up becoming something polished, but not truly yours.

Now I am more willing to admit that I am still on the way. I envy other people sometimes. I hesitate. I question my direction at night. I become uneasy when applications disappear into silence. I feel a little shaken when someone else seems so sure of themselves. None of this is elegant, but it is real.

Then why write any of this down?

Because sometimes writing feels like a way of pulling yourself back out of the water. Not all the way to shore. Not with a revelation. Just enough to stop sinking for the moment.

Writing this did not suddenly make me clear-headed. I still did not know the answers, and I still do not claim to know them now. But writing gave me one thing: honesty. Honesty about the fact that I was not as composed as I wanted to appear. Honesty about the fact that I had desire, vanity, fear, and also the stubborn wish to do something meaningful.

Maybe growth is not the day you become invulnerable. Maybe it is the day you begin to allow yourself confusion, and to move anyway. Direction is often not something you think your way into. It is something you walk your way into. You keep going, and gradually a road begins to show itself.

So I do not have a beautiful ending here. I only want to leave this version of myself on the page. If one day I become someone else entirely, perhaps I will return and remember that I too once felt this uncertain, this restless, this intent on understanding who I was.

And if anyone does happen to read this while they are lost themselves, I think what I want to say is simple: do not rush to define yourself all at once. Just live. Just try. Just get through today first. Many answers do not come when you demand them. They arrive slowly while you keep moving.