Reposted Article
An exceptionally outstanding junior shares his Gaokao (Chinese National College Entrance Examination) experience.
We hope it inspires students preparing for the Gaokao.
Original Text
This article was converted by Jianyue SimpRead; original source: mp.weixin.qq.com
In 2017, the first cohort of the “New Gaokao” reform rolled out nationwide. As one of the first pilot students at the first pilot school in the first pilot province, I was selected.
On May 6, 2018, the Experimental Class at No. 1 High School admitted 263 students—I ranked 266th and missed selection by three places.
On June 6, 2018, I made my first subject selection and entered my first class—Class 9.
On September 6, 2018, I made my second subject selection and moved into my second class—Class 8.
On December 12, 2019, during the end-of-term summary meeting, I first heard news of the outbreak of COVID-19. Thereafter, I studied online from home for 96 consecutive days.
On April 1, 2020—66 days before the Gaokao—I learned that the national exam had been officially postponed.
The Gaokao was delayed by one month from its original schedule.
On July 8, 2020, we—the first cohort of Gaokao-takers since China’s Reform and Opening-up to experience a postponement—completed the exam. Two months later, on September 8, 2020, I scored 20 points above my usual performance: 50 points higher than the second-highest scorer in my class, and 10 points higher than the second-highest scorer across the entire grade. I ranked first in my class, first among all regular (non-experimental) classes, within the top 50 of the entire grade, and within the top 0.8% province-wide—earning admission to the current university’s long-cycle program.
Looking back on my arduous Gaokao journey, I traversed nights of confusion and struggle, trod through thorny thickets of self-sabotage, and ultimately arrived at a shore of inner coherence and composure. Along this path, I grew increasingly certain of three life principles: Seize opportunities; Do your best; Trust in good fortune.
People often say luck is a sudden, heaven-sent surprise—but my three years taught me otherwise: Every seemingly serendipitous blessing or gentle favor is always preceded by actively seizing opportunity, then diligently doing your best—and only then does fortune arrive, naturally and inevitably. Those apparent coincidences—regrets born of misalignment, unexpected turns, sudden breakthroughs—had already been quietly laid as narrative groundwork in every choice I made, every commitment I honored, and every act of self-healing I undertook.
I. Seize Opportunities
In autumn 2017, the wave of the New Gaokao swept across the country. As a student at County No. 1 High School, I became one of the first provincial pilot students for this new reform. Standing at the turning point of educational transformation, everyone carried vague, hopeful expectations—yet I never imagined how profoundly this era-defining innovation would seed countless opportunities and pivotal turning points across my three-year high school journey. From the outset, my Gaokao path was woven with both accidental coincidences and conscious commitments—not to let any opportunity slip by.
On May 6, 2018, the Experimental Class admission list was posted: 263 slots, and I ranked 266th—just three places short of entry. I narrowly missed joining the elite class, with its optimal faculty and resources. Overwhelmed by disappointment, I recalled my elementary-to-junior-high transition: also missing admission to the city’s best private middle school by just one point—and how my father had humbly petitioned others and spent money and connections to secure my enrollment. A surge of youthful defiance and stubbornness rose within me. I ran until exhausted in a wetland park, collapsed onto the grass, and resolved: My parents’ protection had already gone far enough. From now on, I would fight this battle myself.
Today, looking back, that rejection was never a regret—it was fate’s quiet gift. Had I entered the Experimental Class, I would have plunged into an ultra-competitive track crowded with academic elites, forced to confront my weaknesses head-on and deprived of space to develop at my own pace. Precisely because I missed this “ideal” path, I gained autonomy—to choose differently, to grow asymmetrically, and to thrive off the beaten path.
Fate’s generosity did not cease. On June 6, 2018, my first subject selection placed me in Class 9—a Physics-Chemistry-History combination. Students here were notably proud and confident; indeed, combining the most demanding humanities subject with the most rigorous science subjects implied high collective IQ. Yet I also observed instability: gender imbalance, quick tempers, verbal clashes escalating into physical altercations. Acting rationally, I began planning an exit strategy—and just three months later, the school opened a rare second round of subject selection. This window of adjustment—granted by historical timing—was not merely a chance, but the very beginning of my turnaround. Without hesitation, I shouldered my backpack and transferred to Class 8. That sunlit autumn afternoon, golden light filtering through blue curtains, marked the true starting point of my high school journey.
Real opportunity always favors those who are clear-headed and decisive. My performance across elective subjects was consistently solid: History 90, Physics 82, Chemistry 87, Biology 88, Geography 85, Politics 83. Faced with such balanced scores across six subjects—and thus no obvious standout strength—I fell into uncertainty about subject selection. At that moment, fate sent me a mentor: my maternal uncle, a veteran physics teacher at a key Qingdao high school. Over the phone, his words cut through my fog: “Subject selection must follow trends—play to your strengths, mitigate weaknesses, and identify your comparative advantage.”
I sat silently for three hours, reviewing past grades, analyzing my aptitudes, and assessing broader trends—drawing wisdom from Sun Tzu’s Art of War: “Avoid the enemy’s sharp edge; strike where he is unprepared.” Though genuinely interested in physics and reasonably proficient, I recognized the absolute intellectual advantage held by elite peers in mathematical-logical reasoning; competing directly would drain enormous energy. English was my weak spot—and breaking through in the Gaokao hinged on focusing firepower on core challenges. Geography, reliant on accumulation and intuitive insight, aligned perfectly with my natural strengths—and required minimal dependence on elite teaching, enabling me to cultivate distinctive advantages even in a regular class.
Ultimately, I firmly chose the combination: History + Geography + Chemistry. This deliberate, strategic decision—seizing opportunity with precision—allowed me to sidestep futile internal competition and locate my own unique Gaokao track, paving the way for subsequent success. I gradually understood: “Good fortune” is never passively awaited—it arises from recognizing opportunity, acting decisively, and, when faced with life’s multiple-choice questions, choosing the answer that fits you best.
II. Do Your Best
If seizing opportunity provided the foundation for my turnaround, “doing your best” was the three-year practice that sustained it. My growth unfolded as a metamorphosis—from seeking external validation and exhausting myself internally, to accepting myself fully and staying true to my authentic core.
In the sleepless nights after missing the Experimental Class, old negative voices flooded back like tidal waves: In elementary school, teachers questioned why I dared not raise my hand; in high school, classmates criticized my careless mistakes on tests; my parents repeatedly said I overthought everything; and when attracted to a girl, I shrank back in timidity. Years of withdrawal and low self-worth had entrenched deep self-doubt. To trace the root, I read Freud—and finally grasped: My habitual retreat and sensitivity stemmed not from innate mediocrity, but from repeated childhood experiences of being dismissed and constrained. I wasn’t born ordinary—I’d simply been shackled by the imprints of my upbringing.
Yet tracing roots brings clarity—not liberation. Freud helped me understand my past, but offered no map to the future. Real growth began the moment I resolved to release the past and focus entirely on doing my best.
After transferring to Class 8, I immersed myself deeply in study—and in the mid-term exam, I stunned everyone by ranking fifth in the grade and first in my class. This stellar result—combined with my carefully cultivated image of disciplined diligence—convinced Mr. Liu, our veteran homeroom teacher with thirty years’ experience, to appoint me class president despite objections from others. At the time, burdened by moral obligation, I struggled to set boundaries or decline responsibilities—so I reluctantly accepted the role and embarked on a year-long performance of “flawless persona.”
I began living inside others’ expectations—striving to be an impeccable class leader and a universally competent scholar. I enforced punctuality during morning self-study, maintained discipline during evening self-study, juggled endless class duties; sat upright and gave full attention in class, patiently answered every peer’s question, and practiced constant self-restraint. Everyone praised me as a model and benchmark—yet only in solitude at night did I know I had already lost myself.
The pressure of occupying the pinnacle, the relentless drain of tasks, and the exhausting pretense of perfection plunged me into a full year of self-doubt. Scrutiny from subject representatives, subtle distancing from classmates, and inner conflict wore me down. Gradually, I realized: Constantly accommodating others and obsessing over perfection has nothing to do with genuine growth. The true meaning of life lies in living authentically and unapologetically as yourself.
I turned to classical texts and philosophy for answers. Rereading Mozi, I grasped the wisdom of “honoring the worthy, unifying standards, universal love with orderly distinctions.” So while serving as a “shadow study committee member,” I never refused anyone’s questions—acting as a node reinforcing positive classroom culture and consciously attuning to the class’s collective subconscious. Freed up time allowed me to read Adler’s Understanding Human Nature. His words struck me: “People are not determined by their past, but propelled by their goals.” I realized: For the past half-year, I’d lived solely toward the goal of being a “good class president.” Now, I needed to discover my own goal.
Studying Adler, I internalized: “What matters is not what happens, but how you interpret it.” I understood that the past cannot define the future—mindset and choices shape destiny. Delving into Jung’s theories, I learned to face my shadow: cowardice, vanity, selfishness, and feelings of inadequacy.
I stopped resisting my imperfections; I abandoned the pursuit of flawless performance. Observing that another classmate was better suited to lead, I proactively resigned from the presidency—shedding the title to become a quietly diligent “shadow study committee member.” I anticipated criticism post-resignation and prepared to bear the consequences calmly. Unexpectedly, classmates didn’t blame me—in fact, they felt guilty, believing they had held me back. For the first time, my judgment of human nature faltered. Only upon releasing the burden and mask did I begin truly seeing this pragmatic, rational, and warm-hearted class—and relearning the texture of human connection. Their response revealed my mentors: This time, I’d advance with the class, not ahead of it. I answered every question more thoughtfully, and used the reclaimed time for inner cultivation—acknowledging my limitations and vulnerabilities without shame.
This act of self-liberation was my most precious high school growth. I finally broke free from the chains of others’ expectations, left behind performative effort, and mastered “task separation”: Others’ evaluations belong to them; my growth belongs solely to me. Doing my best means embracing wholeness—not forcing perfection. This is the ultimate answer that carried me across confusion and out of self-sabotage.
III. Trust in Good Fortune
My luck has always been quite favorable. According to my mother, I was born during a gentle, soothing spring rain—her family took it as Heaven’s auspicious sign, and thus named me accordingly. From early on, I possessed an intuitive sense: When things felt right, fortune followed. Rarely did I speak of this feeling—it wasn’t mystical, but rather the natural reward bestowed by Heaven after diligent self-cultivation and consistent, focused effort. All fortunate moments are, in truth, inevitable outcomes of sustained dedication. When you learn to seize opportunity and steadfastly do your best, fortune arrives—not dramatically, but gracefully, right on schedule.
December 12, 2019—the day of the end-of-term summary meeting. The grade director mentioned, “Unexplained pneumonia cases have appeared in Wuhan.” None of us imagined those four words would reshape the entire world.
Winter break kept extending; online classes became routine. For 96 days, I sat alone in my room, facing a computer screen from dawn till midnight.
No more whispered conversations with desk-mates. No more chasing and laughing in the hallways between classes. No more Mr. Liu patrolling outside the classroom window. The world grew silent—leaving only my own breathing.
At first came anxiety: staring at pandemic maps as red zones spread, watching the Gaokao countdown dwindle amid uncertainty, wondering when we’d return to campus.
Then came numbness: back-to-back online lectures, endless electronic worksheets, chat groups flooded with “Received” and “Teacher, thank you for your hard work.”
Until one late March night, after finishing a history mock exam, I pushed open my window. Early-spring wind, crisp and cool, flowed in; streetlights cast soft yellow glows over empty roads.
In that instant, I suddenly calmed.
Since the external world was beyond control, I’d turn inward. Since the future remained unknown, I’d anchor myself in the present.
I began reading voraciously—not just review guides and syllabi, but classical texts nourishing the soul.
Reading The Art of War, I grasped “In warfare, there are no constant conditions; water has no constant shape.” Amidst chaos, immutable patterns still exist. The pandemic was a crisis—but crises contain opportunity. For the self-disciplined, these 96 days were golden for pulling ahead.
Reading Selected Works of Mao Zedong, I was struck by the phrase “Seek truth from facts.” No subjectivity, no blind following—everything grounded in reality. What was my reality? Solid fundamentals—but insufficient depth; strong intuition—but comparatively weaker logical reasoning; capable of self-discipline—but prone to self-doubt.
Reading Mozi, I was moved by the ideal of “universal love and non-aggression.” Beyond personal striving lies a larger world worth caring about. Medical workers rushing to Wuhan; ordinary people holding their posts—these reminded me: The Gaokao matters, but life’s value transcends test scores.
Most deeply touching was the Tao Te Ching: “The highest goodness is like water. Water benefits all things without contention.” Water contends with nothing, yet reaches everywhere; it appears soft, yet wears away stone. This brought immense comfort—I need not always be forceful; I need not always be perfect. Like water, I could be gentle yet resilient.
These books, over 96 days of solitude, built a robust inner world. When external storms raged, my heart found its anchor.
During prolonged home study, anxiety lingered like a shadow. One day, I rediscovered a wuxia novel confiscated in junior high—mentioning “breath regulation and qi cultivation.”
Though fictional, curiosity stirred: Could breathing truly affect mental state?
To boost study efficiency, I researched cognitive science and neuroscience—and discovered solid evidence: Deep breathing activates the parasympathetic nervous system, lowering stress hormone cortisol. Specific breathing rhythms improve heart rate variability (HRV), inducing rapid relaxation.
Integrating knowledge, I developed my own method:
Clarity-and-Turbidity Breathing Technique
- Close eyes; inhale twice sharply through the nose (imagining drawing in pure, fresh energy)
- Exhale once slowly through the mouth (imagining expelling murky stress)
- Focus awareness on breath flow, visualizing negative emotions leaving with each exhale
Later, aligning with natural biological rhythms, I practiced at special times:
- At sunrise, facing the rising sun—I called it “Gathering Purple Qi”
- At night, facing the moon—I called it “Absorbing Imperial Flow”
To avoid unnecessary attention, I always left home earliest, practicing alone at Moon Bay. I needed no explanations—only knowing it worked. When my heartbeat slowed from frantic to steady, and agitation receded like tide, this was no mysticism—it was embodied science. This clarity-and-turbidity breathing became my earliest encounter with Traditional Chinese Medicine’s concepts of Yin-Yang and purity/turbidity.
In the final three months before the Gaokao, this technique became my secret weapon. Before every mock exam, during emotional fluctuations—or even when my crush’s presence unsettled my mood—I used it to restore inner calm.
As revision deepened, I grew increasingly dissatisfied with fragmented knowledge points. One night, staring at a historical timeline and China’s map, inspiration struck: Why not integrate all knowledge into a unified system?
I closed my eyes and constructed it mentally:
First Layer: Geographic Skeleton
A three-dimensional map of China unfolded in my mind. The Three Terraces stood clearly defined; the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers flowed like arteries; mountain ranges, climate boundaries, and resource distributions formed integral parts of this framework. Regional geography and natural/humanistic concepts ceased being isolated facts—they became vivid textures anchored in three-dimensional space, establishing a firm spatial foundation for all humanities studies.
Second Layer: Historical Narrative
Onto the geographic skeleton, I lit sparks of civilization. Along the Yellow River, Xia, Shang, and Zhou ignited like first embers; across the Guanzhong Plain, Qin and Han radiated majestic grandeur; between north and south, Tang and Song blossomed with literary elegance; across sea and mountains, Ming and Qing witnessed zenith and decline, followed by a century of humiliation; in modern times, global patterns unfolded before me—intense international exchange, sweeping historical currents. Each dynasty transformed from an isolated timeframe into an organic whole—intimately linked to geography, economic foundations, and social institutions—allowing me to grasp the inevitable logic behind historical events, not merely memorize dates and facts.
Third Layer: Logical Framework for Sciences (Physics/Chemistry)
Though I hadn’t selected Physics, I never abandoned it. Through extracurricular reading, I independently explored cutting-edge physics theories—and gradually noticed mathematics, physics, and chemistry shared recurring abstract core concepts: form, essence, structure, hierarchy, attribute, element, etc. Later research confirmed these universal categories—fundamental meta-concepts distilled by logic, systems theory, and philosophy—serving as foundational building blocks for all natural sciences and the critical nexus linking math, physics, and chemistry. Thus, I deliberately deepened my mastery of these foundational terms—internalizing their core meanings, distinguishing usage boundaries across contexts—and attempted to construct a unified scientific-logic framework. Though limited by my cognitive capacity at the time, I completed only half the framework—but embedded it fully within my multidisciplinary modeling system, effectively dismantling learning barriers between math and chemistry and significantly reducing problem-solving and comprehension difficulty.
Fourth Layer: Linguistic-Thinking Framework
Chinese and English serve as ultimate carriers of cognition—bridging Eastern and Western thought—and form the output core of the entire knowledge system. I moved beyond fragmented vocabulary, text passages, and grammar rules to build complete thinking architectures for both languages. In Chinese, I integrated classical Chinese systems, textual logic, literary analysis, and dialectical writing with historical narratives and geographical features—interpreting literary schools through regional landscapes, understanding textual themes through epochal transformations—transforming texts from isolated units into vessels carrying era, humanity, and ideas, cultivating a “reading texts to understand history; observing texts to comprehend the world” mindset. In English, I discarded rote vocabulary memorization and rigid grammar application. Instead, I mapped Western logical architecture, constructing frameworks for sentence structure, discourse organization, and cross-cultural cognition—clarifying differences in thinking patterns and expression logic between Chinese and English. This linguistic layer perfectly integrated geographic spatial cognition, historical chronology, and scientific rigor—ensuring all internalized knowledge and lucid thinking could be precisely, coherently, and systematically expressed in language—finally solving the persistent dilemma: “I understand the concepts, but can’t answer fully, accurately, or thoroughly.” Complementary East-West thinking and integrated humanities-science cognition closed the loop, making the entire multidimensional knowledge system truly complete.
The first time I fully constructed this four-layer integrated model, I suffered a splitting headache—clearly sensing the upper limit of my cognitive capacity at that time. Yet I refused to quit. Daily clarity-and-turbidity breathing calmed my mind and settled my thoughts; day after day, I deliberately refined and rigorously reviewed. After one week of persistence, my learning state underwent qualitative transformation: Solving geography problems, landforms, climates, and cultures spontaneously surfaced—answers emerged organically; analyzing historical events, macro-trends and causal chains unfolded step-by-step—interpretations grew deeper; tackling math and chemistry problems, underlying logic became crystal-clear—abstract formulas acquired concrete examples—problem-solving flowed effortlessly; reading and writing responses, thoughts connected seamlessly, logic tightened—no longer scattered or chaotic.
In that moment, I achieved full enlightenment: True learning is never mechanical memorization of isolated facts—it is constructing your own complete cognitive network, enabling all knowledge to interconnect and serve you.
All quiet, persistent effort eventually blooms. On April 1, 2020, news of the Gaokao’s one-month postponement arrived unexpectedly. While others lamented and agonized, I sensed fate’s gentle nudge—I knew: My opportunity had arrived. This seemingly miraculous favor was never random—it was Heaven’s reply to those who prepare with intention.
I seized these extra 30 days fiercely, designing hour-by-hour plans. I rose daily at 5:30 a.m., facing east to practice “Clarity-and-Turbidity Breathing.” From 6:00–7:00 a.m., English listening and reading; 7:00–7:30 a.m., breakfast while listening to news. Mornings focused on math and minor subjects; afternoons on Chinese and English; evenings dedicated to gap-filling and error-log consolidation.
At 10:00 p.m., after evening self-study ended, I stepped onto the balcony, faced the moon, and practiced “Imperial Flow Absorption.” Then, in my journal, I recorded reflections—and read how ancient philosophers discovered Dao amidst historical upheaval.
Days were simple, repetitive—but each brought palpable progress. That sense of control grounded me more firmly than ever before.
On the night of July 6—on the eve of the Gaokao—I lay awake.
Not from nervousness—but from unusual mental clarity. Scenes from the past three years scrolled like film: the bitterness of ranking 266th; the deliberation during subject selection; the exhaustion of being class president; the relief of resigning; the solitude of pandemic isolation; the exhilaration of building my knowledge system; the peace found in breathing practice…
At 3 a.m., I rose and sat still. Nine cycles of Clarity-and-Turbidity Breathing. My heartbeat steadied; my breath deepened.
Outside, the first birdcall echoed. Dawn was breaking.
July 7: Chinese. The essay prompt centered on the pandemic—I wrote reflections from those 96 days, exploring how “adversity strengthens the nation” manifests in individual growth. My pen glided across the answer sheet—scratch-scratch—like footsteps of time itself.
That afternoon: Math. I stalled on the second part of the final question. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for three seconds. Mathematical formula logic chains surfaced clearly in my mind—anchored within my knowledge framework. Eyes reopened—insight burst forth.
July 8, 9, and 10: My main battlefield. Historical timelines, geographic spatial awareness, and scientific-logic thinking shifted fluidly in my brain. For three hours straight, my pen never paused. Five minutes before submission, I set down my pen and scanned the entire paper—no regrets. I had given absolutely everything.Afternoon English exam—the final battle. As I wrote my essay, rain began to fall outside the window. Amid the soft pitter-patter of rain, I penned my final sentence:
“The strongest people are not those who show strength in front of us, but those who win battles we know nothing about.”
(The strongest people are not those who display strength before our eyes, but those who triumph in battles invisible to us.)
The bell rang—Gaokao was over.
No book-tearing. No cheering. Calmly, I packed my stationery and walked out of the examination hall. The rain had stopped; the sky, washed clean, stretched deep and vividly blue.
Score-checking day was the afternoon of July 26. Network congestion forced me to refresh the page over ten times before it finally loaded.
Total score: 646
I gazed quietly at those digits. I’d performed 20 points above my usual level—50 points higher than the second-highest scorer in my class, and 10 points higher than the second-highest in my grade. Class rank: #1. Ordinary-class ranking: #1. Grade-wide ranking: Top 50. Provincial ranking: Top 0.8%.
My father leaned in to look; my mother beamed with joy. The phone began ringing nonstop—relatives, teachers, classmates.
I stepped onto the balcony and practiced Qing-Zhuo Tu-Na (a breathing technique distinguishing “clear” and “turbid” energies) three times. No euphoria, no excitement—only a profound stillness. Like finishing a marathon: physically exhausted, yet inwardly lucid.
This extraordinary performance wasn’t mine alone—it belonged to our entire class. Later, I learned that year, our class ranked among the top three in average score across the grade—and achieved the highest undergraduate admission rate. Within our class, my study group ranked first in both average score and first-tier university admission rate. Among the top ten students in class, three were from our group; among the top fifteen, five were.
I realized that, in this silent battle, I had found my place—my subconscious drive to rise had merged seamlessly with the collective subconscious of our class.
Beyond subject knowledge, this exceptional performance reflected an inner transformation: Freud helped me release self-blame; Adler gifted me courage; Jung taught me wholeness. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War offered strategy; Mozi’s philosophy taught universal love; the Tao Te Ching instilled composure. Ninety-six days of solitude forged depth; Qing-Zhuo Tu-Na cultivated calm; holistic modeling built systemic understanding; awareness of—and gentle guidance toward—the collective subconscious of our class and study group emerged from rigorous scientific and natural-historical study.
Oh—and there was also Teacher Liu’s words: “Class 8 will always need you.” The approving glance from my geography teacher; my history teacher clapping my shoulder saying, “You have talent.” My chemistry teacher patiently explaining concepts again and again; my parents delivering warm meals late into the night; teachers holding the line during the worst of the pandemic; classmates encouraging each other through online classes—warmth shared across digital space.
All these were strokes of luck—these people were my benefactors. Later, I treated my closest friend “Hanhans’” mother for severe cervical spondylosis; cured my deskmate’s chronic eczema; prescribed dietary therapy to accelerate healing for my teammate’s bone injury; visited Teacher Liu before the New Year and designed a comprehensive care plan specifically for his cardiac condition. My study of Traditional Chinese Medicine became my gift back to them.
This fortune—and these benefactors—never fell from the sky by mere chance. It lay hidden in every decisive choice to seize opportunity; in every steadfast act of reconciling with myself; in daily deep work and self-healing. Freud’s excavation of origins, Adler’s courage to choose, Jung’s clarity of integration, the wisdom of China’s pre-Qin philosophers, teachers’ expectations, and my own forging—all converged into my personal fulfillment.
IV. Six-Year Retrospect: Understanding the Ultimate Meaning of Growth
Now, six years later—Saturday, June 6, 2026—I turn 26 (by traditional East Asian age reckoning). Looking back from 2026, I finally grasp the meaning of that path:
The First Gate (Freud) is Tracing Origins. Seeing where I came from—understanding how my wounds formed. This is “Mountains are mountains”: the mountain simply is—I see its existence and comprehend why it stands there.
The Second Gate (Adler) is Decision. Recognizing that the past cannot be changed—but choosing how to respond, how to move forward. This is “Mountains are not mountains”: the mountain is no longer just rock—it is the peak I must climb, the battlefield where I prove myself, or even the excuse I hide behind when fleeing.
The Third Gate (Jung) is Inner Awareness. Making peace with my shadow, encountering wholeness. This is “Mountains are mountains once more”: the mountain remains—yet it is no longer an adversary, but scenery. I need not conquer it; I only need to coexist with it—to find my place within its embrace.
That summer after Gaokao, I traveled to Qingdao to see the sea. Before the world’s tallest Laozi statue at Taiqing Palace on Mount Laoshan, watching tides ebb and flow, I suddenly recalled a line from the Tao Te Ching:
“The softest thing in the world dashes against the hardest.”
I am not the mountain—I can become water: gentle as a stream, mighty as a river, profound as an ocean. Square where confined, round where unconfined—shaping myself to circumstance, yet never abandoning my original intent.
The first layer—tracing origins—means seeing my wounds, accepting past regrets, and deciphering the roots of all hardship.
The second layer—decision—means breaking free from others’ constraints, actively choosing my path, and seizing every chance to rise.
The third layer—inner awareness—means reconciling with my shadow, embracing my imperfect self, and living a life of ease and clarity.
At last, I understand: I need not be an impregnable mountain—I may instead be water: adaptable, resilient, inwardly rooted, flowing with circumstance. Soft yet unbreakable, deeply grounded, naturally responsive—that is growth at its finest. Such serendipitous fortune has always favored clear-eyed, resolute, disciplined, and authentic youth.
V. A Message Forward: Three Sentences for Dream-Chasing Youth
Another Gaokao season arrives. Watching today’s examinees, I see myself six years ago.
If I must share anything, then:
On Choice: May you learn to seize opportunity. Don’t be held hostage by “popular” subjects—listen to your inner voice. What’s best isn’t necessarily right for you; what fits you is best. I chose geography over physics—not because geography was easier, but because it better matched my cognitive traits and time-management style. And though I gave up the physics exam, I never abandoned studying physics itself.
On Effort: May you work steadily and authentically. Don’t perform diligence—grow genuinely. Sitting at your desk for 12 hours matters less than 8 hours of focused learning. Knowing why you study is more important than what you study. Building your own knowledge system matters more than solving one hundred practice tests.
On Mindset: May you patiently await your unique fortune. Don’t resist pressure—learn to coexist with it. Discover your personal Qing-Zhuo Tu-Na—be it deep breathing, running, listening to music, or journaling. Build your still center amid the storm. Every sudden stroke of luck is the culmination of accumulated effort. Just keep cultivating quietly, giving your all—and all the effort you’ve invested, the loneliness you’ve endured, the confusion you’ve healed, will crystallize into unseen grace awaiting you down the road.
On Teachers and Peers: Cherish every teacher and classmate you meet. Teacher Liu taught me responsibility; my geography teacher showed me the power of stillness; my classmates revealed to me the strength of community and universal love. These matter just as much as scores.
On Growth: Don’t chase perfection—embrace wholeness. Allow yourself to err, to be vulnerable, to occasionally say, “I can’t.” A whole self is truer—and stronger—than a perfect one.
Finally, remember: Gaokao matters—but it does not define your life. It is merely a door. Beyond it lies a long journey. What truly counts is not how you perform at the door—but who you are beyond it, and how you continue forward.
Grasp what you can control; do what you can do well. Leave the rest to time—and to the self who has kept striving all along.
Wishing you luck—not just in the exam hall, but throughout life’s long journey: may you always retain the courage to push open doors, and the composure to walk through them.
Postscript
As I write these words, cicadas sing loudly outside my window. Another summer. Another cohort of youth steps into examination halls.
I don’t know which questions you’ll face—or what answers you’ll write. But I do know: each of you carries within a multidimensional model waiting to be built; a personal Qing-Zhuo Tu-Na method waiting to be discovered; and a uniquely yours path waiting to be walked.
And at the end of that path lies neither scores nor universities nor any external label.
At the end of that path lies you—finally able to say:
“This is me. I walked here—and I will keep walking, carrying all the landscapes I’ve passed, and holding quiet anticipation for the next leg of the journey.”
If I could offer just three closing sentences, they would be:
Seize opportunity. Be your best self. Wish you luck.
