The Constant Rewrite
The chipped microphone felt surprisingly solid in my hand, a small anchor in the smoky haze of the Irish bar. Beijing felt a world away from everything I knew, and yet, standing on that tiny stage on Tuesday and Thursday nights, telling jokes about awkward school experiences and childhood mishaps, felt profoundly right. I was frequently enough the youngest person in the room, performing alongside seasoned comedians, but the challenge – learning to read a crowd, to recover from a bombed joke, to find the humor in my own failures – was exhilarating. One night, a man approached me after a set, simply to say he admired my courage. he’d been inspired by the way I navigated challenges with humor to try the same himself. I never saw him again, but that brief connection, that quiet acknowledgement of impact, became a powerful fuel.It showed me the potential to connect with others, to offer a moment of shared laughter, even with stories as simple as a cringeworthy high school memory.
That sense of connection wasn’t confined to the stage. High school, for all its pressures, also gifted me with a different kind of rhythm on the court and the field. The wins and losses faded quickly, but the bonds forged with teammates endured. Those stolen weekends, the fast games squeezed between classes – they were pockets of levity, a chance to momentarily forget the weight of everything. these seemingly insignificant moments, the everyday camaraderie, shaped me in ways that any academic achievement ever could.
Arriving at Harvard didn’t feel like a culmination, but a shift. It was like changing languages mid-conversation; the momentum continued, but with new complexities. I continued to seek out the things that made me feel alive. Performing in the Science Center and Smith Center demanded a new level of polish, forcing me to move beyond the easy laughs I’d earned back home. Poker, music, and late-night basketball honed my ability to listen, to read people, to trust, and to perform under pressure. It was this same drive to push my boundaries that ultimately led me to an improbable decision: walking onto the football team.
My friends were skeptical,and honestly,so was I at times. They knew my commitments,and they were right to point out the immense sacrifice football would require. For a while,the idea felt unrealistic. I remember thinking, if someone had told me during freshman year I’d be attending math class with a jammed shoulder, running on four hours of sleep after the most brutal conditioning session of my life, I would have dismissed it as absurd. Yet,that became my reality for a year.
But the more I considered it, the more a sense of restlessness grew. Letting the opportunity pass felt like a future regret I couldn’t bear. I’d always wanted to test myself, to see if I could compete in a sport I’d never played, on a stage I’d never imagined. So, in my sophomore year, I became a football player. But it wasn’t just about the jersey. It was about showing up, enduring the challenges, and continually pushing myself beyond what I thought possible.
Harvard hasn’t felt like an ending, but a continuation. The hustle hasn’t stopped, but it’s now layered with more choice, more freedom, and a healthy dose of the unexpected. Even thousands of miles from home, I feel grounded. The kid who navigated the beijing school system, the high schooler honing his craft in a pub, the math enthusiast, the first-generation athlete at Harvard – all those parts of me are still present, still evolving.I’m still figuring things out.
And I’ve learned that this isn’t a story defined by an acceptance letter, a football jersey, or a future job. It’s a story I’m actively writing, one repetition at a time, one joke at a time, one class at a time. It began in Beijing, carried me to Harvard, and continues to unfold, intricate and uniquely my own.
