What does it mean to grow up?

After four years and three months, I graduated from university. I believe that people have their own destinies. Looking back, I consider myself lucky. Right and wrong, fortune and misfortune — every moment, every perspective, brings a different understanding.

I’m someone who is logically consistent but emotionally inconsistent. When it comes to human relationships — the most ordinary encounters, the most familiar family and friends, the most commonplace meetings and farewells — I often don’t know how I should appear, what tone to take, or what actions to perform. I fear having to rebuild intimacy with people I was once closest to, because starting from strangers again feels both impossible and unfair. Life doesn’t have that many decades; only by not initiating contact can I avoid loss. So I am especially grateful that, when reunion does happen, the other person can pull me back to that safe and familiar feeling from the past.

For me, everything involving human interaction needs to be governed by cold, rational logic — to make each emotion and every action feel reasonable. It seems like a kind of divine guidance. My dictionary doesn’t include “regret” or “remorse,” not because I’m indifferent or decisive, but because those words don’t fit my logic. Every choice I make is the one that, in that moment, balances all my emotions and reason to best suit who I am at that time. Even if, looking back from the future, the outcome isn’t what society would call “good,” I’ve never experienced the alternative, and I cannot know if a different choice would have led to a better life — or only to emotional or material exhaustion. So I trust that I am meant to be this way, and that I am meant to experience what I have.

From a young age, I knew I was different from most people. My parents didn’t expect me to be ordinary, and I hoped I could honor their investment in me. They wanted me to be healthy and happy, of course, but they also poured themselves into discovering my potential, pushing me to higher platforms, and giving me broader perspectives and richer experiences. I know this isn’t something a typical family, or one with ordinary expectations, could achieve. I treasure it, and I proceed cautiously.

I sometimes joke with friends that my “politics” comes from mastering the lesson of resisting temptation. It’s true, and because it is, I remember this lesson vividly. When I was ten, my mother had my father take me to the cinema for an educational film. But at the theater, the screen said: “Children’s Day Special: Snow White and the Magic Mirror.” I told my father I wanted to watch that instead. He let me choose. I realized that the opportunity to choose my own happiness was rare, so I picked Snow White. That day, Snow White wasn’t very good — I knew my father thought so too. Later, my mother asked how the film was. I said I watched Snow White. Without thinking, I spoke honestly, expecting perhaps a scolding — though I hadn’t really watched it at all. I felt guilty for taking my father’s time for something he might not have enjoyed, and for wasting my parents’ careful planning, spending sixty-something yuan on fleeting “happiness” instead of lasting education.

Even if my ten-year-old mind was rigidly black-and-white, I immediately understood I shouldn’t envy other children for going to parks or wandering stores after school. I could grow up happy without those things. Nor should I chase happiness too eagerly — to do so would load me with expectations and take the joy from me. From then on, even when I could make choices, I avoided buying fancy stationery, snacks, or pretty clothes. Those items would carry the weight of years of suppressed expectation; without them, I could be lighter and genuinely happy. My memory is poor, but that afternoon, that Snow White film, that moment in Shanxi Theater that my parents no longer remember — it became a lesson I carry for life.

I admire talent, and I dislike effort for effort’s sake. In middle school, while everyone else attended extra classes, competitions, and signed early deals with schools, I was swept into the same current. To free time for math competitions, hannotate classics, and English, I gave up nearly all my hobbies, shuttling between contests and exams. Looking back, I realize I was just a naive machine — if my goal had only been the best middle school, I didn’t need to give up so much. Fortunately, I followed my natural talent; the extra effort brought extraordinary reward. Math introduced me to dozens of people who were equally in their element, and together we broke free, eventually landing in a high school class I fit in with.

Yet when opportunities arose, when resources rained down on me, I didn’t declare: “This is the life I want.” I fled instead. If I am reborn with a slender, tall body, I want to be a classical dancer, expressing stories with my body, living in dance.

At university, I realized again how lucky I am. I came to a school where I had to fight for my own resources. The widely-criticized major application system became a platform for me to stand out, compensating for the information and reading gaps I had in high school. In large, impersonal computer science classes, I achieved top marks with little effort. Yet when COVID hit, finals were canceled, assignments counted double, and I, someone who never fussed over formatting code, ended up with a 3.7 GPA. Proud as I am by nature, I didn’t chase harder CS classes to prove my ability — I risked some competitiveness to pursue what interested me. I didn’t conform, but I kept my edges. I measured the hardest program, then pivoted to business. Serendipitously, things went smoothly, and I eventually entered both the business school and, on a second try, the computer school. Life seems destined — I make the choices I do, encounter disasters and luck at the right moments, and somehow arrive at where I need to be.

The U.S. job market has been difficult these past two years, especially for graduates. I see people anxious, depressed, blaming timing or fate. I cannot fully relate. Some imagine that, had they graduated earlier, they would have landed a better year. But there is no “if.” Many who panic may never have experienced unemployment — if you haven’t, how can you know it is truly bad? My mother witnessed computing rise; we have seen it decline. Perhaps the era of easy dividends is over. A hidden force pushes us to lead a new era, not slack off. For me, computer science suits me now, but may not define all my talent. Even if I stumble, I can find a new direction. Despite the bumps, I arrive where I want to go — I catch the last train. Whether this is lucky or not, I cannot say. But leaving room for contingency, holding hope, keeps my inner light alive, guiding me toward fulfillment.

Now, I can buy my own happiness, because I no longer measure gains and losses. Life proves itself in time and experience. We arrive with nothing and leave with nothing — I am complete on my own, needing nothing external to fulfill me. May I protect my soul’s freedom, follow its desires, and feel its joy and sorrow. Everyone is far more complex than the story of themselves. To understand oneself, move forward, and experience — this will be my lifelong course.