There is a girl who is told to play basketball, cut her hair, and learn notto be so punctilious in appearance or in the way she handles things. She is
expected to be aggressive all the time, confident all the time, strong all the
time, just like the boys, just like the other students.
I know her well. That girl is me.
For most of my life, I have been taught by my surrounding social groups toembody a “strong male” character, even against my will. For a long time, I was
pushed by my teachers, my family, and sometimes myself to participate in all
kinds of radical sports competitions at school, to be the one who always stayed
optimistic in my family, and to be a reliable person who took responsibility
for the group.
These traits are admirable in themselves, but behind this social mask laythe deprivation of my right to be vulnerable. When I cry, people always ask why
I'm so weak, so vulnerable, even though what I need is comfort, not criticism
or judgement. I’m told I’m not the socially approved version of who I should be,
and that I shouldn't be interested in dressing up like a girl.
There is a voice that rises late every night, quiet but persistent. Itquestions everything. It stares back in the mirror, not to admire but to
examine. This voice only appears after the city lights go out, as if moonlight
alone might help me see myself clearly. It dissects, doubts, dreams. That voice
is myself.
The distance between us is not always visible—but it is vast.
I could not figure out why my community was so obsessed with shaping meinfinitely close to a man. Whether I am male or female, I believe I should have
the right to pursue my own personality and role, rather than being forced into a
predefined mold in the eyes of society. Often, I feel that I can’t connect with
either gender group or fully integrate into their social interactions. I was
often rejected by both when I wanted to join their deeper conversations. This
sense of separation comes from a long mental distance between my social
personality and my true self.
But a question popped up one day last year: when did I start living in theparentheses of others’ expectations?
De Beauvoir once wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” Icarry that sentence like a key in my pocket. My personality, as I experience
it, is not essence—it is architecture, designed by invisible hands. Others can
regard me as the woman they need, but only I know what person I want to become:
myself. I alone can facilitate my inner self, not society. As long as mycore is solid, the frameworks imposed by the outside world cannot restrict me.
Nevertheless, I can take advantage of some cultivated traits, turning thescaffolding others built into my own platform. For instance, I have learned to
stand on the stage in my school hall to give speeches about my experiences. And
surprisingly, several students came to me afterward, saying they had
experienced similar problems for a long time. The boys told me they live under
constant pressure from parents to be aggressive and show leadership, while the
girls shared that they are always encouraged to be kind, beautiful, and
wife-like. That was the moment I found that I was not an exception.
Ilater read a 2024 UN report stating that over 60% of young womenworldwide still feel “pressure to act in ways that contradict their true selves
in order to be accepted socially.” The statistic felt strangely comforting—notbecause such distance is good, but because I am not alone in mapping it.I sincerely hope society can provide teenagers enough space to be the people we
want to be. Through pursuing the right to express myself, I have gradually
become self-consistent and slowly reduced the distance between my true self and
my social mask.
The hardest part is not pretending—it is forgetting that I am pretending.That me begins to believe she is all there is. That myselfbecomes the ghost haunting a body too tired to fight.
But I write. I write to shorten the distance, carrying the voicethat whispers at night into the light. I write to remember.
And with every word, with every refusal to be less than whole, the distancebetween me and myself narrows.
One day, I hope to wake up and find that we have finally become one.