Seeing He’s posts always gives me the sense that life carries endless hope—the same feeling I get from other influencers. I jokingly call this the “Chinese-style model citizen,” yet I can’t help wondering whether I should try to become like that.
Their lives seem powered by an unwavering faith: unconditional effort that makes them better, more loving toward themselves, more caring toward others. I admire that devotion, but I can’t imitate it. To live that way, I would have to lie to myself—to pretend that effort alone could quiet my doubts. Even if such a belief made me feel safe, even if it made my body and mind healthier, I know that once I woke up to myself again, the illusion would collapse, and I would squander all that borrowed peace.
Sometimes I wonder whether my mother, when she was young, knew she would become who she is now. Did any of us, as children, realize that we might grow up without ever truly understanding ourselves? Looking back, I see countless moments when my life could have taken another path. Whom should I thank for ending up here? No one in particular—they were just living their own ordinary lives, though their choices shaped me in ways they’ll never know. Can I thank myself? I can’t. I haven’t done anything especially right. I am simply—fortunate.