Today is January 17th, my birthday.
It’s been a long time since I properly celebrated a birthday. When I was little, birthdays were a big deal. I’d invite a bunch of friends over, there’d be cake and candles and wishes, all lively and bustling, and I’d feel like I was the center of the universe for that one day. Back then I took wish-making seriously too, cramming as many wishes as possible into my mind before blowing out the candles, afraid that once the flames went out the wishes wouldn’t count anymore. Now though, I don’t seem to look forward to it the way I did as a child. The sun rises as usual, classes still need attending, assignments still need submitting. It’s just that when friends’ birthday messages start coming in, I can’t help but smile, spending half an hour carefully replying to each one.
Twenty-four years old. Honestly, this number doesn’t carry any particular significance. It’s not like eighteen, which marks legal adulthood, nor like thirty, weighted with the cultural expectation of having established oneself. Twenty-four is just twenty-four, an ordinary age stuck somewhere between youth and youth. If I had to say what makes it special, it would be this: I’m one year older, but I don’t seem to have gotten much smarter.
But this year I want to write something.
Looking back, these twenty-something years of mine, calling them smooth sailing would be an exaggeration, but I really haven’t encountered any major storms either. I’ve had decent grades since childhood, got into the top class in middle school, attended a provincial key high school, my report cards always ranking near the top of my grade. At family gatherings, the elders liked to use me as educational material. I’d sit there with a polite but hollow smile on my face, mentally calculating when the meal would finally end.
The so-called “other people’s child” probably describes someone like me. But “other people’s children” also have their own “other people’s children” to envy. If you trace this chain of comparison upward, it probably goes all the way to international olympiad gold medalists.
During my senior year of high school, my homeroom teacher called me in for a talk. The afternoon sunlight was lovely that day. He looked at my grade report with that teacher-specific smile, both gratified and expectant. He said, based on your current performance, Tsinghua or Peking University, if you stretch a bit, you should be able to reach them.
Stretch a bit.
Those three words sounded so hopeful at the time. They were telling me that between you and that glittering future, there’s only a small distance. You just need to try a little harder, grit your teeth just a little more, and that fruit hanging at the highest branch, shining in the sunlight, will fall steadily into your palm.
So I stood on my tiptoes and reached out my hand.
Then I fell.
The afternoon the scores came out, my parents held me and cried. Around one thousandth in the province. This result would be worth popping champagne for in most families, but that afternoon, in my parents’ tears, no one cared whether it was respectable enough. Everyone only cared whether it was good enough for Tsinghua or Peking University.
But I felt strangely calm inside.
This calmness surprised even me. Logically, I should have broken down. A whole year of staying up late, only to fall short at the most critical moment. But I just couldn’t cry. I felt like I had floated out of my body, suspended in mid-air, coldly observing the scene. I could see my parents’ tears, could hear their sobs. It was clearly a sad scene, but I felt like I was watching a movie that had nothing to do with me.
Later I told a friend about this, and she said it’s called emotional detachment, a self-protection mechanism. Maybe. Anyway, at many major moments in life, another version of me automatically emerges from within. She floats out of my body, stands at a slight distance, and with an almost indifferent gaze examines this flesh experiencing great joy or sorrow.
Later I chose to repeat senior year.
When I made this decision, my mood remained very calm. I even felt that repeating the year was a bit like going into seclusion to cultivate. Isn’t this always a plot in cultivation novels? The protagonist fails their tribulation, gets knocked back to square one, heals and gains enlightenment in some unknown cave, then emerges a year later. I went to a high school in my hometown county. I imagined myself as that protagonist healing in a cave, except my cave was a classroom with harsh white lighting, and my miraculous medicine was the endless practice problems from past college entrance exams.
That year passed quickly. Eating, doing problems, sleeping, on repeat. Days went by like this, one after another, and before I knew it, it was summer again.
I walked into the exam room for the second time.
As it turns out, life really isn’t a power fantasy novel. There was no dramatic comeback, no face-slapping revenge arc. I still didn’t reach Tsinghua or Peking University. In the end, I went to Renmin University.
Is Renmin University good? Yes. Very good. I met some interesting people there, experienced some things worth remembering, spent four relatively pleasant years.
But that fruit I had stood on my tiptoes for two years to reach never did fall into my hands. It still hangs at the highest part of the branch, shining brightly in the sunlight. And I stood under the tree, looking up at it, finally quietly admitting: okay, I can’t reach it.
Some things, no matter how hard you try, you might not get them. I learned this truth before I turned twenty. The tuition was two years of youth, plus one failed college entrance exam.
After undergraduate, I applied to graduate schools abroad. When selecting schools, I stared at those higher-ranked schools, and that familiar voice emerged in my mind again: stretch a bit, you should be able to reach them.
I laughed when I heard this voice. Here we go again. These three words are like a persistent ghost, following me from eighteen to twenty-two, crossing oceans to continue following.
Guess what happened?
I failed to reach them once again. In the end, I came to the University of Pennsylvania. Ivy League, Philadelphia, ancient campus, fresh anxieties. A very good school, truly very good. But those schools I stretched for still politely rejected me, just as Tsinghua and Peking University had politely rejected me years before.
I told myself, enough, really enough, what more do you want. But meritocracy, once it moves into your head, is very hard to evict. It tells you your current position isn’t good enough, you should go somewhere better; your current grades aren’t high enough, you should score higher. On its ladder, you can only ever see the steps above, never how high you’ve already climbed.
Nakajima Atsushi wrote a story called “Moon Over the Mountain” with a line that goes: deeply afraid that I am not a pearl and thus dare not polish myself diligently, yet confident in having some talent and unwilling to mingle with rubble.
The first time I read this line, I stared at the screen for a long time.
I always thought I was the kind of person who dares to fight and venture. After all, I repeated a year, after all, I made many choices that seemed to require courage. But thinking carefully, I’ve never truly pushed myself to the breaking point. I always leave room, always find myself an escape route.
I tell myself this is being prudent, being rational. But maybe it’s just another form of cowardice.
Afraid of losing. Even more afraid of still losing after giving it everything.
This semester’s grades came out, four courses all A’s. I should have been happy. But I opened a social media app and saw screens full of grade-sharing posts, this person with a 4.0, that person with all A’s, and comments casually mentioning that graduate grades are generally high. Then I remembered I got an A-minus in a summer course.
Just that one minus sign. In the long river of life, it doesn’t even count as a grain of sand. But it can jump out right on schedule in the middle of the night, specifically when you’re most exhausted, buzzing in your ear: see, still a little bit short.
“The Courage to Be Disliked” says that people’s troubles all come from interpersonal relationships, from comparisons with others. I understand the logic, but between understanding and achieving, there’s a distance I probably won’t cross in this lifetime.
You see, meritocracy is this kind of thing. You can’t drive it away, can’t kill it. You rank first and it reminds you there’s still provincial first, you get into a prestigious school and it reminds you there are even better schools, you get an A and it reminds you of that A-minus. It’s always buzzing in your ear, tirelessly, enthusiastically.
And all I can probably do is learn to coexist with this mosquito. Get bitten by it occasionally, scratch it, life goes on.
Living means having to learn to coexist with some uncomfortable things. Coexist with anxiety, with regret, with those fruits you can’t reach.
Writing this far, it seems a bit bleak.
But in these twenty-four years, there have clearly been many luminous moments too.
For instance, I’ve been to some places. Standing at the highest point of a city, beneath me a dense cluster of skyscrapers, sunlight covering the glass, heaven and earth so vast it leaves you speechless. I’ve been to mountains, seen forests ablaze with color; been to the sea, heard the ceaseless waves. Traveled with friends to unfamiliar cities, tasted many unforgettable flavors, made solemn promises to meet again at parting.
For instance, I’ve met some people. Some became friends I can share random thoughts with anytime, exchanging messages late at night without feeling like I’m disturbing them. Some gradually scattered into their own lives, but those nights we pulled through together, those people and things we complained about together, still exist nicely in memory, jumping out from time to time to remind me: hey, you’re also someone who has been well loved.
For instance, I’ve read some books. Although I’ve forgotten most of the content, they probably shaped who I am now in some way I can’t quite articulate. Some sentences are so exquisite they make me jealous. Things I’ve turned over a thousand times in my heart but can’t express clearly, under the author’s pen, are laid bare in just a few words. Some stories led me through someone else’s entire life; closing the book felt like waking from another world. I’ve watched some films, cried a few times, laughed a few times, some scenes remain vivid even after a long time. I’ve heard some songs, a few of which I still play on repeat, heart still stirring after hundreds of listens. That there are people in this world who can say what I want to say, express the emotions I want to express, is such a thing to be grateful for.
These moments, together with those regrets, have filled my twenty-four years.
I looked back.
I saw an eighteen-year-old girl standing on her tiptoes to reach that highest fruit, then falling down. I saw her get up, dust herself off, go into seclusion in a county town cave for a year, reach again, fail to reach again. I saw her go to Renmin University, go to the University of Pennsylvania, stumbling all the way here. She fell many times, shed some tears, doubted herself on countless late nights, then woke up countless mornings to continue the journey. She made many choices, some later proved right, some still unclear.
Then I thought, this girl’s life is actually great. She didn’t reach that highest fruit, but she reached some other things. She has parents who love her, friends who remember her birthday, a reasonably respectable education, a reasonably interesting life, accumulated some stories to slowly savor in the future. Her life still has large blank spaces waiting for her to slowly fill with color.
After all, only twenty-four.
Liu Lian has a song called “Present” that goes: I don’t have many ideals, but I’m not willing to surrender either, it’s good you’re present, this life wasn’t lived in vain. It’s good you’re present. This is probably the sentence I most want to say in these twenty-four years. Those who walked with me, those who reached out when I fell, those who remember my birthday, their very existence is the best harvest of this journey.
Twenty-four years old. I’m still fighting that meritocracy mosquito, still tossing and turning over trivial matters in the middle of the night. But I’m also slowly learning not to be too hard on myself when I can’t reach something.
In this lifetime, wanting to fight for everything, wanting to win everything, is exhausting. Those anxieties and unwillingness, going round and round, in the end only trap yourself. Of course I’ll continue to work hard, this is probably an instinct carved into East Asian kids’ DNA, can’t change it. But I’m also starting to try to believe that when I can’t reach something, the sky won’t fall. When I stumble, just get back up.
The world is big, fruits are plentiful, not every one must be picked.
My parents still love me, friends still remember my birthday, Philadelphia is snowing now. These small things added together seem able to catch a whole pretty decent life. So be it then.
Happy birthday to me. And to you who read this far, may all you seek come true, may all your paths be smooth, may all you meet be good people.
Life is a vast sea, mountains upon rivers, walk forward plainly, ask not when to return.
January 17, 2026
Chinese Version:
才二十四
今天是1月17日，我的生日。
我已经很久没有正经过生日了。小时候过生日是件大事，要请一堆朋友来家里，蛋糕蜡烛许愿吹灭，热热闹闹的，觉得这一天自己是全世界的中心。那时候许愿也特别认真，趁着蜡烛还没吹灭，在心里拼命多塞几个愿望进去，生怕火苗一灭愿望就不作数了。现在呢，好像也没有小时候那么期待了。太阳照常升起，该上的课还是要上，该交的作业还是要交，只不过朋友的祝福消息响起来的时候，还是会忍不住嘴角上扬，花半小时认真地挨个回复。
24岁了。说实话，这个数字本身并没有什么特别的意义。它不像18岁那样意味着法律上的成年，也不像30岁那样被赋予三十而立的文化重量。24岁就是24岁，一个普普通通的夹在青年与青年之间的年纪。如果非要说它有什么特别，大概就是——我又老了一岁，但好像也没变聪明多少。
但今年我想写点什么。
回头看看，我这二十多年，说顺风顺水有点夸张，但确实也没遇到过什么大风大浪。从小成绩就还不错，初中进了重点班，高中上了省重点，成绩单上的数字永远在年级前列。亲戚聚会的时候，长辈们喜欢把我拎出来当教育素材，我就坐在旁边，脸上挂着礼貌而空洞的微笑，心里盘算着这顿饭什么时候能结束。
所谓”别人家的孩子”，说的大概就是我这种。但”别人家的孩子”也有自己羡慕的”别人家的孩子”，这条鄙视链往上追溯，大概能一路追到国际奥赛金牌得主头上去。
高三那年，班主任找我谈话。那天下午阳光很好，他看着我的成绩单，露出了那种老师特有的、欣慰又期待的笑容。他说，按照你现在的成绩，清华北大的话，够一够，应该能够到。
够一够。
这三个字当时听起来是那么的有希望。它在告诉我，你和那个金光闪闪的未来之间，只隔着一小段距离。你只需要再努力那么一点点，再咬牙那么一小下，那颗挂在枝头最高处的、被阳光照得发亮的果子，就会稳稳当当地落进你手心里。
于是我踮了脚，伸了手。
然后我摔了下来。
出分的那个下午，我父母抱着我哭了。全省一千名左右。这个成绩放在绝大部分家庭都值得开香槟庆祝，但在那个下午，在我父母的眼泪里，没有人在意它够不够得上体面，大家只在意它够不够得上清华北大。
但我当时内心却异常平静。
这种平静让我自己都觉得奇怪。按理说我应该崩溃的。熬了一年的夜，结果在最关键的时刻功亏一篑。但我就是哭不出来。我感觉自己像是从身体里飘了出去，悬浮在半空中，冷眼旁观这一幕。我能看见我父母的眼泪，能听见他们的抽泣。明明是很难过的场景，但我好像在看一部跟自己无关的电影。
后来我跟朋友聊起这件事，她说这叫情绪抽离，是一种自我保护机制。也许吧。反正在人生的很多重大时刻，我体内都会自动冒出另一个我。她从我的身体里飘出来，站在稍远一点的地方，用一种近乎冷漠的目光审视着正在经历大喜大悲的这具肉身。
后来我选择了复读。
做出这个决定的时候，我的心情依然很平静。我甚至觉得复读这件事有点像是在闭关修炼。修仙小说里不是总有这种情节吗？主角渡劫失败，被打回原形，在某个不为人知的山洞里疗伤悟道，一年后重出江湖。我去了县城老家的一所中学，我把自己想象成那个在山洞里疗伤的主角，只不过我的山洞是一间灯光惨白的教室，我的灵丹妙药是永远做不完的五年高考三年模拟。
那一年过得很快。吃饭，做题，睡觉，周而复始。日子就这么一天天过去，不知不觉，又是一个夏天。
我第二次走进高考考场。
结果呢，人生果然不是爽文。没有逆袭翻盘的戏码，没有打脸复仇的桥段。我还是没够到清华北大，最后去了人民大学。
人民大学好不好？好。很好。我在那里遇见了一些有趣的人，经历了一些值得记住的事，度过了四年还算愉快的时光。
但那颗我踮了两年脚尖去够的果子，终究还是没有落进我手里。它还挂在枝头最高的地方，被阳光照得亮晶晶的。而我站在树下，仰着头，看着它，最后默默承认：好吧，我够不到。
有些事情，你拼尽全力也未必能得到。这个道理，我在二十岁之前就学会了。学费是两年青春，外加一次高考失利。
本科毕业，我申请了国外的研究生。
选校的时候，我盯着那几个排名更靠前的学校，心里又冒出了那个熟悉的声音：够一够，应该能够到。
我听到这个声音的时候笑了。又来了。这三个字简直阴魂不散，跟着我从十八岁跟到二十二岁，漂洋过海继续跟。
猜猜结果怎样？
我又一次没够到。最后我来到了宾夕法尼亚大学。常春藤，费城，古老的校园，崭新的焦虑。一所很好的学校，真的很好。但那几个我够一够的学校，它们还是礼貌地拒绝了我，就像当年清华北大礼貌地拒绝我一样。
我跟自己说，够了，真的够了，你还想怎样。
但优绩主义这个东西，一旦住进你脑子里，就很难请它出去。它告诉你，你现在的位置不够好，你应该去更好的地方；你现在的成绩不够高，你应该拿到更高的分数。在它的阶梯上，你永远只能看到上面的台阶，而看不到自己已经爬了多高。
中岛敦写过一个故事叫《山月记》，里面有句话：深怕自己并非明珠而不敢刻苦琢磨，又自信有几分才华而不甘与瓦砾为伍。
我第一次读到这句话的时候，盯着屏幕看了很久。
我一直以为自己是那种敢拼敢闯的人。毕竟我复读了一年，毕竟我做了很多看起来需要勇气的选择。但仔细想想，我好像从来没有真正把自己逼到绝境过。我总是留有余地，总是给自己找好退路。
我告诉自己这叫稳妥，这叫理性。但说不定，这只是另一种形式的胆怯。
怕输。更怕全力以赴之后还是输。
这学期成绩出来了，四门课全A。我本来应该高兴的。但我打开小红书，看见满屏的成绩单分享，这个4.0，那个全A，评论区还有人轻描淡写地说研究生成绩普遍都很高。然后我想起来，我夏季学期有一门课是A-。
就这一个减号。搁在人生的长河里，它连一粒沙子都算不上。但它就是能在深夜里准时跳出来，专挑你最困的时候在耳边嗡嗡：你看，还是差了一点点哦。
《被讨厌的勇气》里说，人的烦恼都来自人际关系，来自和他人的比较。道理我都懂，但懂和做到之间，隔着我大概这辈子都跨不过去的距离。
你看，优绩主义就是这样一种东西。它赶不走，杀不死。你考了第一它提醒你还有全省第一，你去了名校它提醒你还有更好的名校，你拿了A它提醒你那个A-。它永远在你耳边嗡嗡嗡地叫，孜孜不倦，乐此不疲。
而我能做的，大概只有学会和这只蚊子共处。偶尔被它叮一下，挠挠，日子还得继续过。
人活着嘛，总要学会和一些不那么舒服的东西共处。和焦虑共处，和遗憾共处，和那些够不到的果子共处。
写到这里，好像有点丧。
但我这二十四年，分明也有许多发着光的时刻。
比如说，我去过一些地方。站在一座城市的最高处，脚下是密密麻麻的高楼，阳光铺满玻璃，天地辽阔得让人失语。我去过山，看层林尽染；去过海，听浪涛不息。和朋友一起去过陌生城市，尝过许多念念不忘的味道，在分别时郑重许下再见的诺言。
比如说，我遇见过一些人。有些成了可以随时分享碎碎念的朋友，深夜互发消息也不会觉得被打扰。有些渐渐散落在各自的生活里，但那些一起熬过的夜，一起吐槽过的人和事，都还好好地存在记忆里，时不时出来提醒我，嘿，你也是被好好爱过的人。
比如说，我读过一些书，虽然大部分内容已经忘了，但它们大概以某种我说不清楚的方式，塑造了现在的我。有些句子精妙得让我嫉妒，我心中千回百转说不清的东西，落在作者笔下，三言两语便和盘托出。有些故事领着我走过别人的一生，合上书的时候恍如隔世。我看过一些电影，哭过几次，笑过几次，有些画面隔了很久想起来依然清晰。我听过一些歌，有几首到现在还会单曲循环，听了几百遍依然心动。这世上能有人把我想说的话说出来，把我想表达的情绪表达出来，是一件多么让人感激的事。
这些时刻和那些遗憾一起，填满了我的二十四年。
我回头看了看。
我看到一个十八岁的女孩，踮着脚尖去够那颗最高的果子，然后摔了下来。我看到她爬起来，拍拍身上的灰，在县城的山洞里闭关修炼了一年，再次去够，再次没够到。我看到她去了人民大学，去了宾夕法尼亚大学，一路跌跌撞撞地走过来。她摔过很多跤，流过一些眼泪，在无数个深夜里怀疑过自己，又在无数个清晨醒来继续赶路。她做过很多选择，有些选择后来证明是对的，有些至今也说不清。
然后我想，这个女孩其实也还好。
她没有够到那颗最高的果子，但她够到了一些别的东西。她有爱她的父母，有记得她生日的朋友，有一个还算体面的学历，有一份还算有趣的生活，攒下一些可以在日后慢慢下酒的故事。她的人生还有大片留白，等着她慢慢填上颜色。
毕竟，才二十四。
刘恋有首歌叫《在场》，里面唱：我没什么理想，但也不愿投降，还好有你在场，也不算白活一趟。
还好有你在场。这大概是我二十四年里最想说的一句话。那些陪我走过来的人，那些在我摔跤时伸出手的人，那些记得我生日的人，他们的存在本身，就是我这一路最好的收获。
24岁了。我还在和那只优绩主义的蚊子缠斗，还会在深夜里为一些不值一提的小事辗转难眠。但我也慢慢开始学会，在够不到的时候，不要太苛责自己。
人这一辈子，什么都想争，什么都想赢，是很累的。那些焦虑和不甘，绕来绕去，最后困住的都是自己。我当然还会继续努力，这大概是刻进东亚小孩DNA里的本能，改不掉了。但我也开始试着相信，够不到的时候，天不会塌下来。摔了跤，爬起来就是了。
世界很大，果子很多，不是每一颗都非摘到不可。
我爸妈还爱着我，朋友们还记得我的生日，费城今天在下雪。这些小事攒在一起，好像也能兜住一整个还算不错的人生。
那就这样吧。
祝我生日快乐。也祝看到这里的你，所求皆如愿，所行皆坦途，所遇皆良人。
人生海海，山山而川，素履以往，不问归期。
2026年1月17日