MEETING MYSELF
- Shan Qing Ru
- Apr 3
- 6 min read
By Shan Qing Ru, from "A Year of Dating Myself"
My parents met on a train. They fell in love at first sight, wrote each other letters for three years, and then decided to get married.
When I told my therapist this story, he tilted his head slightly, the way therapists do when they think you are about to connect the dots. “How do you say that in English—Falling in love at first sight? Oh, that is definitely not my thing” I said, watching for his reaction. He smiled.
“Before starting a relationship,” he said, “we need to meet the other person first. So… have you met her yet?”
Oh, her. Myself.
I remember the first time I met her. I hated her.
Meeting myself was harder than any relationship I’ve had. It was harder than leaving my abusive ex, harder than leaving my parents, and harder than moving to Canada alone at 20.
I arrived in Vancouver in 2010 summer, as an international student, without parents’ permission and their support.
Canada, it turns out, is not the land of self-discovery. It is the land of figuring things out, of fumbling halfway to clarity, collectively confused, as if confusion itself is a national identity.
When I met a straight white man:
“You’re Asian? What kind of Asian are you? Let me guess—I’m very good at this. Oh, you’re Chinese? Chinese are bad. I like Japanese more. Koreans aren’t bad either. How much are you for a night?”
When I met a straight white woman:
“Oh, you’re Asian. By the way, I don’t see color—I’m better than that. But tell me, why are Asian girls taking all our men?”
When I met a queer white person:
“You’re Chinese? Cool. You’re cool. I think you are cool. So… how’d you get here? What’s your story? Actually nevermind, just give me everything you have.”
When I met a person of colour from a colonised country:
You’re Chinese? Cool. But why don’t Chinese people from China speak English? Wait, what do you mean China wasn’t a colonial land? White people never took your language away? Are you serious?”
When I met a diasporic Chinese person:
Oh, you’re a newcomer” (I am better than you). “Well, I’m Canadian” (I am not Chinese). “We’re different—You know how different we are, right?” (I hate China! I hate Chinese! I hate myself!). “Oh, and by the way, you misspelled a word in your email.”
When I met someone from Hong Kong, Macau, or Taiwan:
“You mainlander! Oh my god, you must be so brainwashed. By the way I hope you know that I am not Chinese, not like you, we are different. So, tell me—When is the CCP going to start a war with Taiwan? Tell me!”
When I met someone from mainland China:
“You are from Beijing? Were you born and raised there? Oh, I don’t like you. Beijingers look down on everyone. No, I don’t want to be your friend.”
When I call my parents:
“You are single. Everyone in the family is talking about you. They think you’re crazy, mentally ill, a psychopath. Get married. GET MARRIED. NOW.”
After meeting so many people from so many places, I realised no one was going to meet the True Me. No one was even going to try. Their projections stood between me and myself, and I could not break through them.
People might say I care too much about what others think, but how could I not? How many of us can fully ignore what others think when we do not even know who we are? Most of us first meet ourselves through others—Through their judgments, their expectations, their wounds. Especially those of us raised in East Asia, where you are taught that you are the problem.
You are too loud. You are too quiet. You are too big. You are too small. You are too smart. You are too stupid. You are too independent. You are too obedient. Whatever you are, you are wrong.
And many of us were told this: your parents know you best. Better than you could ever know yourself. And so, they project their fears, their regrets, their dreams, and their failures onto you until you are smothered under the weight of all the things they never said to themselves.
The COVID lockdown seemed like a godsend—A time to hide and be with myself. Though to be honest, spirituality wasn’t the only reason I hid. Every time I went outside, someone on the street would call me a virus. They told me to “go back to China,” with the casual tone of asking someone to pass the salt.
During COVID I was finally, truly alone.
And that was when it all hit me: the traumas, the replays, the fears, the anger, the hate. It was so painful, I wanted it to end. It was so painful, I wanted to be held. It was so painful, I wanted to be loved.
But no one could do that for me.
Not my parents—They failed their test of parenting long ago. Not my friends—Every single one had too many projections, rooted in their unconscious bias, their racism, their microaggressions, their misogyny, their internalized racism, their self-hate.
Discrimination made everything harder. Racism made everything hopeless. Sinophobia made everything worse.
I unsubscribed from The Daily on Spotify. I stopped reading the news. I stopped listening to it. I stopped searching for updates on China, Beijing, home. I blocked my parents on WeChat. I unfriended people who hurt me and people I had hurt in return.
One day, I stood on the edge of my balcony—The real edge of my 14th-floor balcony—And thought about jumping. I couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was a flashback. Maybe it was the memory of someone telling me to “go back to China” the day before. It didn’t matter.
All I knew was that nothing ever seemed to change.
Cue the voices:
The first was smooth, casual, way too laid-back for the situation: "Go ahead. Do it. Nothing changes anyway."
It had a point.
Then came the second voice, practical, a little sharp, the voice of a sarcastic older sister: "Or… hear me out: we don’t?"
Exhausted by their bickering, I stepped back into the apartment. My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow. My heart pounded in my ears, dramatic as hell, like an amateur actor auditioning for Hamlet.
I collapsed on the floor of my tiny studio, staring up at the ceiling, which stared back at me indifferently.
After what felt like an eternity—But was probably closer to a commercial break—I calmed myself by watching the steam rise from the kettle, spiralling upward as if it had all the time in the world.
I laid on the floor of my tiny studio on Queen St. West, and heard my neighbour fart loudly.
Instead of revisiting the balcony I reached for my phone. A student worker had given me a therapist’s number once—Possibly out of pity after I cried in the library while asking where the poetry section was. And I figured, what the hell, I might as well give him a call.
While holding the phone, waiting for this therapist to pick up, I turned and caught myself in the mirror.
She was there on that hot day in July, 2020.
She was always there.
A woman. Twenty-nine years old.
I waved at her, and she waved back.
She looked unloved, broken, hopeless, helpless.
I said “Hi.”
She said “Hi.”
I said, "Nice to finally meet you."
She said, "Sorry for keeping you waiting this long. How are you?"
Falling in love at first sight is not my thing.
And I hated her when I first saw her.
But for the first time, I didn’t walk away.
“Meeting Myself” comes from a chapter of “A Year of Dating Myself" by Shan Qing Ru, a unique exploration of self-love and self-discovery from the perspective of an aromantic individual. This column is structured as a journal, chronicling the author's journey in building a relationship with herself. Each essay delves into different stages of this self-relationship, from meeting and getting to know oneself to building trust, resolving conflicts, and ultimately achieving a sense of long-term stability and renewal. This column challenges societal norms about romantic relationships and provides a fresh perspective on the importance of self-acceptance, self-learning/unlearning, and self-care. Stay tuned for more updated on "A Year of Dating Myself"
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