About Me

Before I turned 10, I had a playful, naughty side too. I used to roughhouse and chase around with my brother all the time, and I loved squeezing myself into tiny spaces, like under tables or inside cardboard boxes. Sometimes I’d hide under my dad’s desk and light matches, letting the smoke sting my eyes until they watered — for some reason, I actually thought that feeling was kind of fun. I also really loved popping bubble wrap, with all those tiny little bubbles that go “pop-pop-pop” when you press them. I could play with it forever, whether I was popping them one by one, twisting it like a towel to burst a whole strip at once, or stepping on it and squeezing the bubbles with my toes.

Grade 1

Before school started, my mother taught me: “If you need the restroom, raise your hand and tell the teacher.” But one day I saw a classmate wet their pants and, misunderstanding that I should do the same, I did it too. At first I wasn’t close with classmates and only talked to the ones in front of and behind me. Once, when I went to the market with my mother, I realized some classmates had privately arranged to go eat together. My mother asked, “They didn’t invite you?” That was the first time I understood that people form connections “in private.”

When I first learned Zhuyin (Bopomofo), the very first thing I did after getting home that day was read the all textbooks. I especially liked Mandarin, art, and science, and I loved going to the library to read biographies.

Every summer, my parents sent my brother and me back to the countryside, which I really disliked: the pit latrine was full of feces and flies, chickens and ducks pooped in the courtyard, and behind the room was a smelly, noisy pigsty. My cousin she had a modern flush toilet but wouldn’t let people use it. I would hold in my urine and stool until I couldn’t bear it, then ask my other cousins to take me to grandmother on the mother’s side’s house to use the toilet.

I didn’t really know what was expected in school. I didn’t realize I had to study and memorize the textbook—until my first test. I got 76 points and thought, ‘Oh—exams require memorization.’ That discovery shaped how I studied from then on.

Grade 2

That year I learned to fight back. A boy in class bullied me; I told my mother when she came to deliver my lunch, and she scolded the kids on the spot. From then on, if I was bullied, I would chase and hit back. Years later, shortly after starting university, a classmate recognized me and said I was the girl who often chased boys after class to hit them—apparently I was quite well-known.

Looking back, that might have been the beginning of me learning how to interact with people—not always in the softest way, but at least I wasn’t hiding anymore.

I also learned some “outside-the-rules” ways to get by. In calligraphy class, we were told not to trace—but most people did it anyway. I followed the rule and only got a “D” (the lowest grade). Feeling it was unfair, I started tracing and often got top marks.

I didn’t want my handwriting to just look good because I traced well. So even in college, I’d sometimes take notes with a brush pen—just to practice making every stroke feel balanced and clean. I guess part of me still wanted to prove I could do it without cheating.

I went to an English cram school. The foreign teacher was impressed with my language ability and spent more time coaching my speaking than with the other children. Unfortunately, I only attended a few classes. (In my generation, formal English didn’t start until junior high.)

In the early years, during Lunar New Year in the countryside, grandparents would assign grandchildren to visit their married daughters’ homes and deliver an invitation to return for the family gathering on the second day of the new year. It was customary for the married daughters to give red envelopes to the children who came. This year, my brother and I were sent to invite our aunt—my father’s younger sister. She took us into her room and handed a red envelope to my brother. My brother asked, “Is there one for my sister?” She just smiled without saying anything. She was actually one of my favourite aunts. But that moment stayed with me—it was the first time I truly felt what people meant by the traditional preference for boys over girls.

What seemed like a small moment left a deep emotional imprint of being diminished. At that age, a red envelope wasn’t just about money—it symbolised being seen, being valued. When one child received one and the other one was passed over, the contrast sent a quiet but powerful message: I’m not being treated equally. Maybe I’m not as important.

This wasn’t just a personal slight; it was embedded in the larger cultural narrative of traditional gender preference, where boys are often favoured over girls. That made the moment feel less like a one-off and more like confirmation of a deeper, systemic hierarchy.

More complex still is the fact that this kind of experience—being overlooked by someone you actually like, or treated unequally in a close relationship—can become the root of later sensitivity. It shapes a heightened need for fairness and recognition, and a deep alertness to even subtle forms of being dismissed.

It shapes a heightened need for fairness and recognition, and a deep alertness to even subtle forms of being dismissed.
WOW……That’s so true…..lol.

Grade 3

We had a male teacher who was new at the school and pretty friendly, but eager to prove himself. He wanted attention from school and liked to show off results. To do that, he’d seat “stronger” students with those who were “struggling,” and told us to help each other during exams. I was placed as one of the strong students.

He used to go around asking other teachers about upcoming test questions, then came back and told us what would be on the exam. Sometimes, just a few minutes before the test started, he’d rush back into the classroom and say, “I forgot to mention this one—here’s the answer.

One time, my seatmate ended up scoring higher than I did—even though he had copied my answers exactly. The teacher had mistakenly given him a higher score. So I went and told him.

The teacher looked at me and said, “Because you both were honest enough to come tell me, I won’t deduct his points.

That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that honesty doesn’t really matter—and that some adults were the very ones asking kids to cheat.

The teacher started a tutoring class at his home. I went, made a few friends, and was somewhat happier, but I sensed that those who didn’t attend were being left out.

That year something else stayed with me: a girl whose looks were not accepted by others transferred into our class, and everyone bullied her. I joined in at first, but later the teacher told me, “She loves reading and often borrows books from the library. After that I never took part in bullying again.

Something happened during this stage which is very important.

We were at the seaside when a little girl’s shoe was carried off by a wave and floated toward me. I bent down to pick it up for her. Her mother smiled and thanked me. That small moment of kindness stayed with me—quiet, but unforgettable.

It was the first time I truly felt joy—and it came from helping someone.

Grade 4

We moved and I transferred schools. At first I shut down so much that during morning exercises I said I didn’t know how and just stood still. A girl said, “you can just do and copy everyone,” and she was right.

That year my confidence took its first big hit. In Grade 3 I often earned the very top marks; in the new class, the teacher criticized my workbook for being too dirty. I realized, “Oh, this gets noticed too,” and afterward I kept my notebooks very clean.

Back then, boys bullying girls, especially new people was almost a daily ritual at school—loud, relentless, and somehow accepted.

One day, my mum brought me lunch. The moment I saw her, tears came to my eyes. She walked me back to class and gave the boys a stern warning. But it didn’t help—they started mocking again: “Who doesn’t have a mum? We all do.” I was furious. That whole afternoon, I refused to sit down. I ignored the teachers and just stood there.

Another day, I finally snapped. I cornered a boy, and he ended up crouching helplessly against the wall. I kicked him again and again until he begged me to stop—and none of the other boys helped him. After that, they stopped bullying me. For good.

Later, other new girls were bullied and some came to ask me for help. I thought they didn’t help me before. And I said, “It’ll pass after a while.” It was the first time I noticed, I have power, but I didn’t help them, and I didn’t care about much.

A girl who had been on extended medical leave came back to visit, and not long after, she passed away. I didn’t know her—I was a transfer student—but that day, people were still chatting and laughing like nothing had happened. I couldn’t help asking, “How can you people still laugh and joke around right now?” But no one really responded. My words just faded into the noise.

I was the kind of person who always arrived early—sometimes far too early—at the place my friend and I had agreed to meet. But that day, I waited alone for over an hour. She never showed up. I’d only walked to her house once, and the way there was full of twists and detours. Still, I remembered every turn. I found her sitting there, watching TV. All she said was, “I didn’t feel like going. It was the first time someone completely flaked on me without even bothering to let me know.

One time, my dad had my brother tied up and was hitting him. I rushed over, threw myself over him, and begged my dad to stop. But a few months later, when it was me getting beaten, my brother did nothing—he just hid.

When emotional needs are repeatedly unmet and support is missing, a child—like me—begins to believe it’s not safe to show feelings. Vulnerability starts to feel dangerous—something that leads only to harm or being left alone. Over time, I stopped reaching out, learned to suppress my emotions, and became hyper-independent and constantly alert in relationships. Even when I deeply cared about others, I often kept my distance. It wasn’t because I didn’t feel—it was because I’d learned it was safer not to show it.

This is how an Avoidant Attachment Style begins to take shape. Not because of emotional absence, but as a survival strategy built on one repeated message: emotional needs are unsafe and unworthy of expression.

And from this, a quiet inner rule took root:
“If no one helps me when I’m hurting, then I won’t let anyone see me hurt again.”

I finally realise where that rule came from—“Don’t cry. Crying means I’ve lost.”
Huh. That’s… interesting.

Another memory comes to mind. One day, my parents were considering investing in a piece of mountain land, so they planned to explore a remote stream trail. The path, they said, hadn’t been walked for thirty years. At the time, I was extremely timid—I was afraid of everything. I sat in the car, crying and begging not to go. But they couldn’t leave me alone in the middle of the forest, so they forced me to come along.

Sure enough, many frightening things happened along the way. We ran into bees and snakes, and had to climb steep rock faces using both hands and feet. At one point, the land broker even pulled out a gas gun to spray a beehive and scare off snakes, but he figured it out there’s no gas inside lol, that made we had to run for our lives. And then, somewhere we had to get down a small waterfall—with no path. I remember grabbing onto a tree root and swinging myself down like Tarzan. I was slow, and at one point, my father grabbed me under his arm like a sack of rice, and we ran—literally ran—through the rocky streambed. It was terrifying and absurd—but looking back, it became one of the strangest and most vivid “adventures” from my childhood.

Grade 5

Our homeroom teacher had taught my brother before and was a good person, though he never gave rewards. A new student transferred in; I treated her kindly, but some friends wanted to ostracize her and even asked me to hide her shoes, threatening not to be friends if I refused. I foolishly agreed. When the teacher asked me about it, I denied it—then saw the disappointment on his face. After that, I never participated in such things again.

I was always the one who took care of others—both adults and kids. One time, during a family barbecue, my aunt fell asleep on a lounge chair. I quietly brought her a blanket and gently covered her. When she woke up and saw what I’d done, I felt shy and walked away. Later, when the adults were dividing up the grilled food, she called my brother over and said, “I saved this big chicken leg just for you.” I felt conflicted. In my eyes, my brother was always the one who got to have fun while I was the one paying attention to what others needed. And yet, it always seemed like the adults treated him especially well—like he got all the warmth without having to try. That moment stayed with me. I wasn’t angry, just quietly confused… and a little hurt.

When a child learns to express love by caring for others, there’s also a quiet hope to be seen and responded to. But when that gentleness goes unnoticed—while siblings who only play and never show care receive special attention—it creates a silent sense of displacement: Am I invisible no matter how hard I try?

If this imbalance comes from elders’ preference for boys, then the neglect isn’t just accidental—it reflects a deeper, culturally embedded hierarchy. Over time, the child may internalize a painful belief: There’s no real place for girls in this world.

And so, the only way to prove one’s worth becomes through caregiving—because being needed is the only time I feel I have value.

Ahhh… That’s why, when I heard Luisa—the strong older sister—sing “Surface Pressure” in Encanto, the lyrics hit me 100%. Especially the line: “Who am I if I don’t have what it takes?” It hit straight to the core… how interesting.

My parents fought a lot, especially that year. I remember when I was little, my mum took me and ran away from home a few times. Once, their fight turned physical. I threw myself between them, hugging my mum tightly so my dad couldn’t hit her. I didn’t know what else to do—I just acted on instinct. But later, my mum told me I should’ve pulled my dad away instead of holding onto her. And while all this was happening, the golden son—my brother and cousin were in the kitchen, casually making instant noodles.

During family conflict, instead of running away, a small child might instinctively step in to protect—this is called a substitute protector response. When no adults step in to stop the violence, the child’s body reacts on its own, even if they don’t have the ability to truly help.

If, afterward, a parent criticises the way the child tried to help, it can turn that protective instinct into guilt and confusion. Over time, this may create a deep belief: “Even if I give everything, it’s still not enough.”

Meanwhile, the emotional dissonance becomes sharper when traditionally favoured male siblings stand by passively, continuing with ordinary routines. That kind of emotional contrast makes the child feel like the responsibility is theirs alone. When this happens again and again, the child may learn: others can’t be trusted, and emotions must be hidden and carried alone.

That’s… interesting. I did feel this way haha.

Grade 6

Same teacher, different classmates. I made good friends, and every day I walked home with a few boys I liked. A very popular boy confessed he liked me; I had liked him too, but the moment he confessed, I felt instant aversion—I still can’t explain why.

We formed a group to rehearse a class dance, and I even volunteered to choreograph, but the performance was later canceled.

The school often asked what we wanted to be when we grew up:

• Grade 4 & 5: a teacher.
• Grade 6: a teacher, a police officer, the president; I also said, “I want to open an orphanage.”

That year my twin brothers were born. They were in poor health, and I often dreamed they died. At night I would secretly check their breathing to make sure they were alive. They were my little treasures; sometimes I called them “good sons” in Taiwanese. Like taking care of puppies, I spent every day after school with them, holding their hands on walks all the way until they were in junior high.

It was my happiest year, yet a shadow appeared. I suddenly noticed my comprehension and memory were getting worse. I couldn’t memorize the Mandarin texts but didn’t want to be scolded and still craved my parents’ praise. I secretly learned to forge the teacher’s signature to pretend I had memorized them, and even altered answers to fight for points. From then on, I began to learn how to “pretend.”

The Starting Point of Defiance: “Stubbornness”

As a child, I slowly shifted from an obedient kid to a “stubborn” one.
In our family, resources and attention were almost always centered on my brother. If he wanted something, my parents bought it right away; when I asked for the same thing—or even for required school supplies—I was often refused. He got things easily, while I had to fight long and hard. I didn’t know how to get what I needed the “smart” way.

Sometimes he’d receive a gift and I would ask, “Why don’t I get one?” No one answered. So I argued, persisted, and threw fits—until I finally got one too.

The pattern kept repeating. I was always chasing fairness, and without realizing it, my parents grew more and more impatient with me.

Other patterns that emerged:

• I had to sort things strictly by color and size.
• Before school I checked my backpack three times.