It was past midnight when I opened the application portal.
The only light in my room came from my desk lamp. It was a birthday gift from a friend last year. It used to give off a warm glow, but after months of use the bulb had faded a little. The light felt colder now, almost like the lighting in a hospital hallway. I stared at the screen. My eyes felt dry. I blinked once. Then again.
In the center of the screen were two lines:
Choice 1: Science
Choice 2: Science in Natural Resources
The cursor blinked after them.
On and off.
On and off.
I stared at the words for a long time. They felt like some kind of code. As if choosing one would prove who I am.
But I don’t know who I am.
When I was younger, I learned many things.
Piano, guitar, ballet, figure skating, calligraphy, guzheng.
I tried each of them for a while.
I stopped each of them at a stage that was neither impressive nor terrible.
Piano stopped before the exam. My teacher said that if I practiced a few more months, I could take the test. I even remember the piece I was playing — Für Elise. I liked the opening notes. But preparing for the exam meant scales, sight-reading, technical exercises — the parts I didn’t like. I sat on the bench, my feet not even reaching the floor, and wondered: Why am I here?
Guitar stopped before the calluses fully formed. My fingers had just stopped hurting when I put the guitar back in the corner. Not because of pain. Because the boy who started at the same time could already sing while playing, and I was still struggling to switch between basic chords. He performed at the Christmas show. I clapped loudly in the audience. Someone asked me, “Aren’t you learning guitar too? When are you performing?” I said, “Soon.” I knew I wouldn’t.
Ballet stopped when stretching began to hurt. The teacher said pain meant progress. But I couldn’t understand why progress had to hurt. And even if it did, what would it lead to?
Figure skating stopped after I fell a few times. The rink was cold. I sat on the ice while others skated past me in circles. A younger girl fell, stood up, fell again, stood up again. Her mother shouted from the side, “One more time!” I watched her and thought: I don’t want one more time.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t learn.
It was that once it stopped looking good, I didn’t want to continue.
“Not looking good” has many meanings. Playing unevenly is not looking good. Being worse than others is not looking good. Falling and standing up again is also not looking good — because I couldn’t stand up smiling.
I’ve thought about this before.
Why can others keep going, but I can’t?
Maybe I was praised too much as a child. Adults said “amazing” when I played something simple. “So talented” when I drew something messy. I got used to that moment of admiration. Later I realized that truly learning something involves long stretches where no one says “wow.” Most of the time it’s just repetition. Alone. Unseen.
I don’t know how to handle being unseen.
So I never lack the courage to start. What I lack is the desire to continue when it’s no longer impressive.
Grades are the same.
I’m not a bad student. But the moment my score drops, I immediately lose motivation.
Once I got a seventy-eight in math. The exam was difficult for everyone, but when I saw that number, my first thought was: It’s over.
All the small moments of “I understand” disappeared. I started correcting mistakes and stopped after two questions.
If effort still leads to falling behind, then what is the point of effort?
And just like that, I stopped. Quietly. The way I once stopped piano.
Competitive games are similar. I tried playing with friends. After losing a few rounds, I wanted to quit. A friend once said, “If you give up after losing a few times, you’ll never get better.” She was right. But the feeling of not being good at something makes me not want to try.
The only thing I can keep reading is romance novels.
I like knowing that the ending will be good. No matter how painful the middle is, I can endure it because I know it will resolve. Once I stayed up until three in the morning just to reach the final page and see “The End.”
Life doesn’t offer that certainty.
I scrolled through the list of majors.
Engineering.
Economics.
Psychology.
Literature.
Each word felt like someone else’s name.
Engineering is stable.
Economics is practical.
Psychology interests me, but I’m afraid I won’t be good enough.
Literature feels the most distant.
As a child, when adults asked what I wanted to become, I changed my answer often. Pianist. Writer. Lawyer. Finance professional.
Each time I believed it.
Each time the belief faded.
Maybe I never truly wanted those careers.
Maybe I just wanted to be someone who had an answer.
My friends talk about their futures with certainty. I nod and change the topic.
Once, over hot pot, I said I didn’t know what I wanted to study. My friend said, “But your grades are good.” Then we talked about something else. Steam rose from the pot, but I felt strangely cold.
My parents can’t really help either.
My mom can suggest stable paths. She can gather information. She can outline something practical.
But what I lack isn’t a path.
What I lack is wanting to walk it.
The cursor is still blinking.
Intended Major.
Intended. As in planned.
But I don’t have a plan.
I tried typing one word.
Undecided.
A message popped up: Some programs require you to select a major.
I paused.
Then I deleted it.
Closed the page.
When the cursor disappeared, I felt oddly relieved.
Maybe I don’t lack a future.
Maybe I just haven’t met the word that belongs to me yet.
Not engineering.
Not economics.
Not literature.
Some word that, when I see it, feels like recognition.
Something I would continue even when it’s difficult. Even when it doesn’t look impressive.
Not late.
Just not yet mine.
Not yet.
Amy's Memoir 