To My Youth That Has Gone

She began by admitting she hadn’t expected to feel nervous. Watching Ding Ding Zhang speak earlier, she thought she would be fine. But as his talk drew to a close, she felt it—a quiet, persistent nervousness creeping up her chest. Everything about that day had been rushed, and standing on stage now, what she worried about most was something so simple: whether she looked alright. “Women,” she murmured, “all women.”

While she listened to his talk, her mind kept drifting inward—thinking about insecurity, about how easily people misjudge others. When she looked at the brief introduction written about her, she thought, some of them will probably be disappointed. She had seen that expression before. At dinners with film producers, people would introduce her with exaggerated enthusiasm: “This is Zhuang Yu, she’s so much fun—she smokes, drinks, swears.” She laughed softly remembering it. She was always cast in that role—the unconventional woman, the entertaining one. Yet after every meal, she could see it clearly: disappointment. She wasn’t who they had pictured. “Maybe you, too,” she said, “will find that the person you imagined isn’t quite the one standing here.”

Her talk, she explained, was titled To My Youth That Has Gone. The previous year, a friend had sent her a screenplay called To Our Eventually Lost Youth, and reading it had made her cry. “I just turned thirty-three,” she said, “still young, maybe even younger than some of you here. But I know—the best time of my life has already passed.” So that day, she wanted to speak about the regrets and the shame that lingered from those bright years that had slipped away.

“When you meet someone,” she said, “and you become so close you can share everything there is to share—every joy, every secret—you’ll still find that there are things left unsaid. And those unsaid things are never happy ones. Joy is meant to be shared; what we hide are pain, shame, regret—the kind of feelings that stay locked inside.” She wanted to bring some of those hidden things to light—not to dramatize them, but to offer something real that might help someone else.

The first regret, she said, was that there were two moments in her life when she thought about ending it.

The first was in her early teens. She was overweight, her face full of acne, and she had no close friends. She spent her days eating, sleeping, watching TV, sometimes reading a little, but mostly feeling trapped. “I thought someone like me had no future,” she said. “No hope, no tomorrow, no light.” She felt invisible, unloved, and decided that the only way to end it all was to die. She found half a bottle of sleeping pills, hid it under her pillow, and planned to take them once she found the other half. Before that could happen, her mother discovered it.

Her mother’s reaction stayed with her: calm, almost gentle. She asked, “Why are these under your pillow?” and she answered just as calmly, “Because I don’t want to live. I can’t feel happy.” Her mother stood there for a long time, silent, before leaving the room. “I knew she was hurt,” she said, “and seeing that pain gave me a strange kind of relief, like releasing something that had been choking me.” Later she realized she hadn’t wanted to die at all—she had only wanted someone to notice her unhappiness.

The second time came years later, brought on by work. One winter, she was managing a TV series production—actors and crew filming in front, twenty writers behind her writing scripts. Every day she read their drafts, giving notes, making corrections. Two or three months in, she began to break down: insomnia, anxiety, exhaustion. “From six in the morning to one at night,” she said, “I was doing the same thing, every day, no rest.”

One night, lying in bed in her small apartment, she stared at the white curtains blowing in the cold air from the balcony. “It felt like life had no meaning,” she remembered. “I wanted to jump.” But she reasoned with herself—her job, her income, her life weren’t bad. The next day she went to see a therapist, and on his advice, quit the job. “We all need to make money,” she said, “but compared to life, money is nothing.”

It was only later—after she became a mother—that she understood how deeply she regretted those moments. Like every mother, she dreamed about her child’s future. When asked what gift she would most want to give her son—fame, wealth, wisdom—she said none of those. “What I want to give him most,” she said softly, “is a strong heart. Whatever pain, loneliness, or hardship he faces, I want him to face it bravely. Success is just fame and money combined—valuable maybe, but not precious. Life is priceless.”

She still felt guilty for the pain she caused her mother back then. “Don’t think that venting pain only hurts yourself,” she said. “It hurts others too. And the worst thing is, when you finally understand that, the guilt stays and eats away at you.”

The next regret was financial—using too much of her parents’ money. Everyone, she said, probably has a similar experience: those first years after graduation, when money never seems enough. You want new clothes, dinners out, gifts that don’t look cheap. You join gyms, beauty salons, social events because everyone else does. “Everywhere you go, others seem richer,” she said. “And you start chasing that feeling of not being left behind.”

She described moments of standing in a store, staring at an expensive outfit, torn between need and guilt. “You buy it anyway,” she said, “and no one knows that money was meant for rent.”

Her father’s voice often echoed in her memory: Do you still have money? He said it every time she called. He kept sending her money, even after she began working. “I never sent any back,” she admitted. “And that’s something I’ll always feel ashamed of.”

With time, she realized the people she envied weren’t really better off. Many were just as broke, spending what they didn’t have to look confident. “I know what it’s like,” she said. “The hunger for something beautiful. I’ve had it many times. But looking back, I think I wanted too much, too quickly. And sometimes that made me look ridiculous.”

Now, earning her own money, she understood how hard life truly was—that effort alone didn’t always bring reward, that sometimes you had to trade even your dignity to survive. “So,” she told the younger ones listening, “be cautious with every cent you take from your parents. Don’t chase things endlessly. One day you’ll realize you’ve paid a price for it. You’ll remember the lies you told to satisfy a desire—and your conscience will not forgive you.”

Then she paused, smiled a little, and said she had another regret: how deeply insecurity had ruled her youth.She used to be overweight—about 140 pounds—and her face was covered with acne. She walked with her head down, shoulders drawn in, afraid to laugh out loud. She always wore loose black clothes, hoping they’d make her look thinner, even in summer, when others wore bright skirts. She regretted not having lost weight earlier, not because she wanted to be perfect, but because she wished she could have felt free to wear color, to show her energy. “If I had worn skirts when I was young,” she reflected, “even big ones, it would have been enough.”

People used to tell her that even if she wasn’t thin, she should walk proudly, because youth itself was beautiful. “They said, wear the skirt. You’re alive, you’re young—that’s already beautiful.” She hadn’t believed them then. So now she bought skirts often, maybe to make up for those summers she spent hiding. “Whether you’re a man or a woman,” she said, “make yourself look presentable—not just your face, but your whole presence. Be clean, be bright. Your smile and other people’s smiles will bring you luck.”

She regretted not reading more. Reading, to her, later became a process of discovering and refining herself. Every book helped in some way. “I wasted too much time online,” she said. “In this world there’s so little truth, and too many things that demand thought. You must learn to think for yourself.” No one could teach that; it came only from reading. Books, she realized, helped her handle setbacks, humor, and tolerance. “Sit down and read,” she said. “Read enough to know who you are and who you want to become.” When she finally read through every book at home, her mind grew stronger, her confidence steadier. Reading, she said simply, makes people confident.

She regretted not exercising earlier. Years of headaches and back pain had become her reminder. Now that she moved and sweated again, she found that exercise could be addictive in the best way.

She regretted not learning to say no. For a long time, she let trivial people and tasks consume her time. She was afraid of letting others down, so she said yes even when she couldn’t deliver. “I gave them false hope and hurt us both.” Later she realized she needed to guard her time. “I started saying no. Life didn’t change much—only I felt better.”

There was one small thing that still made her uneasy: she once saw a red down jacket in Hong Kong and thought it would look perfect on her sister. It was a vivid red, not flashy but full of warmth. She imagined her sister’s smile when wearing it. But she hesitated—it felt expensive, maybe not worth the price. “It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it,” she recalled. “I just thought I’d find another like it.” She never did. “Money is for spending,” she realized later. “Buying a little joy for the people you love is the best use of it.” She understood then why many wealthy people were unhappy: they had lost the simple tenderness of giving. Some chances, once missed, never return.

She regretted being overly sensitive, always turning inward. For too long she carried heaviness inside her. “Other than family, no one owes you kindness,” she said. “So when people treat you badly, don’t take it to heart. You are unique; their words don’t define you.” To her, courage wasn’t fighting back—it was meeting unkindness with composure. “When you can look someone in the eye and not let their words sink in, that’s courage. Remember, people’s opinions don’t matter. You are different, and you must stay yourself.”

She wished she had traveled alone more. Reading a thousand books wasn’t the same as walking a thousand miles. “Traveling alone is free and romantic,” she said. “You meet people, see unexpected things, and your world widens.” Later, when life fills with obligations, those solo journeys become bright memories.

There was one she could never forget: a close friend once called to meet before flying abroad. But she was at a party, staying only because there was a boy there she liked. She lied, said she was out of town. They never saw each other again. “Years passed,” she said. “When I was lonely, I thought of her. We became polite strangers.” The boy she stayed for—she couldn’t even remember his face. “I was too young,” she admitted. “Mature people are honest about what they feel. A crush is just a passing kindness from a stranger. Friends are the ones who stay and warm your hands.”

Another time, she often saw a boy in a café and library. They nodded, never spoke. She liked him a little. When she learned he was leaving for Hong Kong, she thought about asking for his contact—but didn’t. “I missed the chance to know a friend I really liked.” Missing someone, she said, changes meaning over time. “You’ll see that finding someone you genuinely like is rare. As we get older, we lose curiosity about strangers.”

These were her small regrets, pieces of youth that had quietly slipped away. She knew she had made bigger mistakes too, but those were enough to show the pattern.

She didn’t mean to teach anyone how to live—no one could. She just wanted to tell her story. “I’m not truly sorry for any of it,” she said. “We all become stronger through struggle.” Now, with a child, her only worry was whether she was doing well enough. People often called her free-spirited, someone who should drink, curse, laugh loudly. But maturity, she had learned, came in stages. “In my twenties, I did all the wild things. In my thirties, I learned to do what that age required.”

She ended simply: she was grateful to everyone for coming. “I know those who came today care deeply about life,” she said. “I hope in the years ahead, we can all keep that feeling—passion, tenderness, a bit of romance. Even when we walk on dirty roads, may our hearts stay clean.”