what i wish i could tell myself a year ago
turns out, i'm my own therapist
Look again
and find yourself changed
and changing, now the bewildered honey
fallen into your own hands,
now the immaculate fruit born of hunger.
— Li-Young Lee, Night Mirror
Dear Jessica,
I know you’re not one for advice. You’ve always insisted on feeling the world with your bare hands—pressing against its sharp edges, unflinching, drawing blood out of some quiet, morbid curiosity. They say experience is the bitterest way to gain wisdom, but you’ve always craved its weight. Only then, you believed, could you truly understand—bone-deep—in a way no book or parental lecture could ever make you.
As 2024 comes to a close, I still can’t claim to be wise or particularly experienced. But I’ve lived through everything you’re about to face—the same gnawing self-doubts, the painful regrets, and the fleeting moments of clarity that make it all feel worthwhile.
There are things I wish I could tell you. Not to spare you from the walls you’re bound to hit, but to help you glimpse what might be waiting on the other side. These aren’t answers, and they’re far from absolute truths. They’re fragments of lessons I’m still piecing together, knowing I might see them differently someday. Take them as you will, in your own time.
On perfectionism
What do aesthetic “day in my life” videos and carefully crafted poetry have in common? They’re both creative, sure, but more than that, they’re polished—complete in a way that feels effortless. The upbeat music in the background is as deliberately chosen as the enjambment of a line. They’re sanctuaries, places to escape when reality feels like it’s unraveling faster than you can keep up.
You shoot a pretty reel, hoping—just for a moment—to see your life the way your viewers might. Or you spend hours agonizing over a single word in a poem because, somehow, that one word feels like it holds all of you. Meanwhile, reality lingers just beyond the frame: unread emails, unfinished homework, laundry spilling out of the basket. But what’s the point of facing the mess when it feels endless? On a screen, on a page, you have control. Here, you can make something beautiful, even when everything else feels broken.
(Video from Spring 2024)
You’re a perfectionist. Your flaw is that you leave no room for flaws. You polish obsessively, but when cracks begin to show in the proverbial pot, you don’t try to mend it—you throw it out entirely. You laugh as you quote the idiom “破罐子破摔” (“if it’s already broken, you might as well smash it completely”), but you don’t see how much you live by it. How deeply you believe that if something can’t be perfect, it isn’t worth saving.
But life isn’t meant to be romanticized; it’s meant to be lived. Not every moment demands grandeur—sometimes, just showing up is enough. A late-night snack doesn’t have to become a feast. A wasted morning doesn’t erase the potential of an afternoon. The desk you tidy today may be cluttered again tomorrow, but that doesn’t make tidying meaningless.
There’s grace in trying, even when you know you’ll fall short. Your character grows in the effort to confront life’s messiness and find meaning in it. You won’t curate perfection, but you can become better. And maybe that’s not just enough—it’s everything.
On small-talk and other superficial rituals
You’ve always believed that deep connections are the only ones worth pursuing. You imagine tea paired with winding conversations about how nostalgia reworks our memories, or whether trees experience time differently from us. You picture yourself showing up with takeout for a friend on a hard day, or staying up late to proofread their essays. Acts of service have always felt more honest to you than words. You crave a closeness where silence isn’t absence, but a presence that feels like home.
And yet, more often than not, you find yourself disheartened. Most interactions stall at polite exchanges—a chorus of “hi’s” and “how are you’s” that ripple across the surface and vanish just as quickly. It’s tempting to retreat into your own thoughts, convincing yourself that solitude holds more meaning. Alone, at least, you tell yourself you can build something real: a deeper understanding of who you are.
But here’s the paradox: you are not, and cannot be, separate from others. There’s no immutable truth to your nature. You’re like clay, molded not only by your inner thoughts but also by the people and experiences that surround you. Solitude has its place—it offers clarity, space to breathe, time to reflect. But shutting out the small, everyday connections might leave you stranded, searching for a self that can’t fully take shape in isolation.
Think of that person you met at Yale. You only shared two meals, yet the way they listened—with undivided attention and warmth—made you feel seen in a way that lingers even now. Their empathy wasn’t just a reflection of who they were; it was a mirror, revealing a version of yourself you hadn’t fully recognized.
So the next time you find yourself in a surface-level conversation, try leaning in instead of retreating into cynicism. What if you looked at the person across from you, asked “What’s your major?” or “What got you into [x]?” with genuine curiosity—and actually cared about their answer?
A smile, a brief but sincere exchange—these gestures won’t change the world, but they might make someone feel seen. And those casual “ILYSM!!” texts you send to friends, the ones that sometimes feel hollow? You might realize they aren’t meaningless after all. Like a spell cast over time, they grow into truths.
Through these layers of fleeting encounters and brief exchanges, you shape the world—and, in turn, you allow yourself to be shaped by it. There’s magic in these rituals. Participate carefully, and you’ll see it. It’s been there all along.
On home
“I spent so many years dreaming of leaving Toronto, chasing the allure of adulthood and the promise of something greater. But that night in Hong Kong, sitting alone with a small plate of cheese and a glass of sauvignon blanc, staring out at the sea, all I could think about was going back. This whole time, I’ve been perpetually searching for a 'home away from home’ to soothe an ache I couldn’t name. But now I realize, after all the heart-shattering attempts to find it in a person or a place, I was chasing something simpler—a feeling. The feeling of the same pair of arms that held me as a child.”
— Excerpt from my diary (2024)
When you feel at home, you’re not exactly the “best” version of yourself. Think: lounging in your room in PJs, binging C-dramas until 3 a.m., whisper-yelling into the void at the juiciest scenes. Arguing—passionately but terribly—about whether Jello is a solid or a liquid, until you’re laughing so hard tears stream down your face. Mixing dishes together at the restaurant, ignoring the mildly horrified look from across the table, and proudly declaring it a “culinary genius masterpiece.” It might be the “worst” version of you—or so your family, or anyone lucky enough to witness it, might say.
At home, you can be childish, clumsy, nonsensical, or downright insufferable. Like that time you sulked around Costco because the cheese blocks were too big and your mom muttered, “I feel sorry for whoever marries you.” To be fair, most days, those parts get tucked away beneath polite exteriors. But when you’re safe enough to let them out—to revert back to the mental age of two, coasting through life on a single brain cell—that’s when you’re happiest. That’s when you’re truly at ease.
Away from the people who’ve known you longest, in places that lack the familiarity of your childhood home, it’s easy to feel unmoored. You wonder if growing up means trading the silly, unguarded parts of yourself for competence and composure. But you’re not ready to let those pieces go, so you begin searching for something to hold onto: a new “home,” a place or a person who lets you feel most like yourself.
Is home a person or a place? Could it be your dorm, once the posters are straightened, and the string lights are hung just right? A group of friends who make you laugh so hard you forget to be self-conscious? Maybe it’s the cute stranger in lecture who chuckled at your offhand comment about the syllabus, just loud enough for you to notice. You convince yourself that the right external force will come along—somewhere, somehow—and everything will suddenly fall into place, offering the comfort and care you’ve been longing for.
But here’s what I’ve come to realize, mostly the hard way: home isn’t a pin on a map or the outline of a person waiting to complete you. It’s already here—your joy, your ease, your lightness. It’s in the way your breath slows when you stop pretending to have it all figured out. It’s in the freedom to wear mismatched socks and eat instant noodles for dinner—not because it’s quirky, but because you simply don’t care. It’s the quiet assurance that even when the ground feels unsteady, you’ll find your balance.
People and places can guide you back to this feeling, like lighthouses in a storm. Being teased by your best friend and swatting them back might remind you of the part of yourself that’s playful and a little ridiculous. A warm kitchen, with spices blooming in a pan or the comforting hum of an oven, might nudge you to pause, to breathe more deeply. They’re mirrors, reflecting your capacity to embrace your inner self—but they’re not the source. You are.
You decide when to let yourself feel at home. No one—not even those you love most—can give it to you or take it away. Home is yours to carry, even in your loneliest moments. But it takes practice. Sometimes the world feels overwhelming—too cold, sweeping past you in unfamiliar currents. When that happens, I’ve found it helps to pause, to sit with the discomfort instead of rushing to fix it. And somehow, slowly, the ease returns—like the rhythm of a steady exhale, a quiet truth resurfacing: you’re okay.
So seek out the people and places that make you feel most at ease. Let them reveal the parts of yourself you might otherwise overlook, and do the same for them. Laugh, savor, and lean into their reflections. But remember this: wherever you go, whoever you’re with—or even when it’s just you—you’re already home. You just have to let yourself feel it.
On hurt and forgiveness
“Other people’s actions are the result of their own pain and not the result of any intention to hurt you.”
— Thích Nhất Hạnh, How to Love
Note: Some details have been adjusted to respect the privacy of those involved.
She wasn’t a stranger—not entirely. But she wasn’t a friend either. Your paths crossed occasionally: group meetings, study halls, the shared spaces that draw people into proximity without ever quite connecting them. So when you heard the whispers—how she’d overstepped boundaries with a friend, been labeled “clingy,” “controlling,” “too much”—you weren’t sure what to believe. You hadn’t seen that version of her. To you, she seemed sweet, unassuming even, and you didn’t lend much weight to the rumors.
Then one afternoon, you invited her over for tea. It was mostly by circumstance—a project demanded attention, and the work wouldn’t finish itself. At first, the conversation stuck to deadlines and logistics, the usual back-and-forth of mutual obligations. But somewhere between the third steep and the fading sunlight, the topic shifted. Her ex-best friend came up—the one she had pushed away.
“It was all a miscommunication,” she said, tracing the rim of her cup. Her voice faltered. “I felt more than I should have. I think he knew.”
She wasn’t asking for sympathy. She didn’t offer every detail. But the outlines of her story were enough: what she did was wrong. Yet as you sat across from her, listening to the careful hesitations in her voice, to the vulnerability she doled out in fragments, you couldn’t see the villain others had described. You saw someone deeply human—flawed, hurting, still carrying the weight of her mistakes.
And you saw yourself in her—not in the specifics, but in the feelings. You understand the regret of caring too much but not in the right way. The fear of leaning too heavily on someone who might not catch you. The insecurity of feeling simultaneously “too much” and “not enough.” And yes, you understand what it’s like to hurt people—not out of malice, but because you were hurting, too.
In that moment, something unexpected clicked: if you had been her ex-best friend, you would have forgiven her. And for the first time, you considered forgiving yourself, too. You’ve always waited for perfect closure before letting go—a grand conversation, an apology, a dramatic resolution. But forgiveness doesn’t always come wrapped in tidy endings. Sometimes, forgiveness is quieter. It emerges when you see your own humanity mirrored in someone else.
The people who’ve hurt you, and the people you’ve hurt, likely sat somewhere a long time ago, having their own version of this tea session. They sifted through the wreckage, pieced together lessons, and moved on without fanfare.
“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If, in our heart, we still cling to anything - anger, anxiety, or possessions - we cannot be free.”
— Thích Nhất Hạnh, The Heart of The Buddha’s Teaching
Hurt isn’t personal; it’s the ripple effect of human pain, passing from one person to the next. Forgiveness is the choice to step out of that cycle, to let go of the weight of what’s been done to you—or what you’ve done to others.
I hope one day, you choose that freedom.
I don’t expect you to fully understand all of this just yet. You might think I’m wrong about some things—or even everything. And that’s okay. Every step, every misstep, will shape you into who you’re becoming. So go ahead, feel the world, even when it hurts. There’s wisdom in the way you’ll heal.
Good luck with 2024. I’ll see you in 2025.
Love,
Jessica