At night, he told me he couldn’t sleep well in unfamiliar beds. Only at home, in his own bed, clutching his pillow, could he truly rest. I told him I could sleep anywhere—a sort of “at home in the world” philosophy. He laughed and called me a stray cat. The word stray has been lingering in my mind these past few days.
I was born in Hong Kong, but because my parents were too busy to care for me, I was sent to live with my grandparents in a small fishing village near Shanghai. For the first time, I had a family I could feel close to: my loving grandparents, my uncle, my aunt. I even attended a bit of nursery school there. Every day after school, I’d call my grandparents to sit on small stools and listen as I told stories or performed little dances. Whether I spoke in Shanghainese or Mandarin, I can’t quite remember—I only recall the carefree innocence of those days.
That carefree life ended when I turned four. My parents brought me back to Hong Kong. I remember one day at home, seeing a plastic Ronald McDonald figure. I burst into tears, terrified by how strange and grotesque he seemed. Then came kindergarten. At first, I couldn’t speak Cantonese and endured cold stares and harsh words from the teachers. I wanted to tell them I was a Hong Konger, but the words wouldn’t come, and they wouldn’t have listened anyway.
Children pick up languages quickly, though. The sense of alienation faded, and soon enough, I was just another primary school student. Those years were unremarkable: average grades, neither particularly happy nor unhappy. At least I wasn’t ostracised anymore, though I was still bullied—by teachers, no less. Eventually, I transferred schools to one filled with Fujianese students who spoke Hokkien fluently. I didn’t. I never understood why I was there.
In Year 5, the school closed down. Most of my classmates moved to another Fujianese school, but I was admitted to a more mainstream one.
By then, I’d already moved house over ten times, averaging a move every two years. I’m not sure if we moved because I switched schools, or if I switched schools because we moved—it’s all a blur. I do remember one day in Year 9, after school, my mother texted me an address. She said they’d just moved into a new flat and I should come straight there. That night, when I walked in, I was stunned. Where was my room? I couldn’t sleep at all. It turns out even I can lose sleep over a move.
Looking back, my life hasn’t been aimless, but it has been transient. The real drifting wasn’t physical. It was the emotional dislocation that came each time I grew comfortable with a place or a group of people, only to be separated from them. Over time, I started keeping my distance from others, knowing that even the closest connections would eventually dissolve.
Recently, I read a line by Sanmao:
"A person must have at least one dream and one reason to be strong. If the heart has no place to rest, it will always be a wanderer."
Her words led me to explore her life, a life of wandering, rootlessness, and profound courage. Despite the danger and loneliness she faced, she maintained a deep love and trust in the world, seeing it through the eyes and heart of a child.
In a way, I’ve been wandering too, my heart never fully settled. There’s always been this feeling that I don’t quite belong where I am. It’s an abstract sensation but unmistakably real. Last year, I finally resolved to change the things in my life that felt out of place, step by step.
Now, for the first time, I feel I’ve found my direction. I’ve discovered my dreams, started work that doesn’t make me hate myself, and found a place where my heart can rest. The stray cat is no longer wandering. And because of those years of uncertainty and drifting, I’ve come to treasure the quiet, clear moments of life all the more—even if I still throw the occasional tantrum.
A few days ago, I celebrated my 28th birthday. To everyone who has helped me become a better person—including those reading this—thank you. If you’re in a period of confusion, believe me: you will be found. One day, you’ll look back on this version of yourself and smile with gratitude. Lin Hwai-min once said, “The wandering of youth becomes the nourishment of a lifetime.” I couldn’t agree more.
Let me share a film that shaped my life: Into the Wild. It taught me about freedom, courage, and a deep love for both humanity and nature.
"The sea's only gifts are harsh blows, and occasionally the chance to feel strong. Now I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. To find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions. Facing the blind deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your hands and your own head."
—Into the Wild
It feels like it’s been a while since I shared a song. Here’s Swallowed in the Sea by Coldplay.
P.S. This year, I hope to write a book. It’s just a personal project—no one’s asked me to publish anything. But would you want to read it?
