When my little sister announced her decision to become the next Emma Raducanu - to dominate tennis as a thirteen-year-old, we were devouring hot pot. Spicy, oily, and guilty bursts of soup contradict the solemn air lingering around us. 

It was also one of my tougher days at school; I had lost my battle with anxiety that morning, my mind oscillating between sessions of ruminating and calmness. Such days convinced me that affirmations were nonsense, just a marketing scheme hyped up by the internet. 

“You know becoming the best actually takes work right? Like, are you willing to sacrifice bubble tea for the next 5 years?”, my brother taunts. 

“Uhhh yeah. Yes. Yes, I am.” 

“If you really mean it, run 5 km after this.” 

“Bruh, what? Not now. It’s literally 11 PM, I don’t want to get kidnapped today.” 

He twitches his head. “We’ll watch you from here. If you can’t even do this, how’re you gonna become the best tennis player, huh?” 

Except she wasn’t kidnapped. She was crying. At 12:42 AM, my glistening sister slammed the main gate and ran into my room.

Slumping her sweaty self on my floor, she cries, “I hate myself, guys. I feel like I’ve just been wasting my life. I always talk about doing this, doing that but never actually…” As she went on, I felt her cries in my bones. Selfish enough, I was thinking of myself. The urgency to which she rambled flashed scenes of embarrassing faux pas I’ve beaten myself over. 

Post-monologue, I glanced over my shoulders to the round light in the sky -- the moon was so bright that night. I tapped on my phone screen, noticing the 2% battery life and the time: time for me to run. 

“I wanna run too. Can y’all wait for me?” I pleaded. 

The next moment, I was on my 5th round around the block. 

When you run, the mind crawls. The first few steps itched my mind as I navigated my inventory of thoughts to keep myself entertained: song lyrics, replaying the day in action, foods that I am craving… wait, did I click order on my skincare package? 

And then, the emotions seep in; steadily, one by one. Words of my sister echoed amidst the silent night as I was suddenly teleported to a third person’s eye -- an observer of myself. I saw myself running. 

Mei, a sixteen-year-old, wears a bubbly facade to school daily hoping to fit in. She fake-laughs (It’s painfully obvious), and joins in on self-deprecation so that people will like her. This is not who she imagines herself to be. She is terrified of what others would think, so she plays safe -- duh. 

But she comes home daily with downturned lips, and shame -- because she knows what she’s doing is not healthy, yet she can’t help it. She blames herself, and others, and the world. What a pity, right? 

When I was small, I often fantasized about the girl I’d be at sixteen. Revisiting baby-me, I felt a wash of guilt for treating her carelessly and harshly. 

With each step feeling heavier and my legs tender, my eyebrows furrowed into a mountain. I was fascinated, like a child’s first time deciphering their image in the mirror. Everything felt clear and still. For so long, I’ve trapped myself in a vicious cycle of fear -- I hid my true thoughts and emotions because I assumed that others wouldn’t accept me. Truth is: I did not accept myself.

Panting as I came to a halt by a wooden bench, a gentle wind caressed my sweaty face. It was like the wind saying: ‘Hey, it’s okay.’ I knew then that in this short lifespan, I cannot betray opportunities at authentic relationships and goals just because of fear; just because of an invisible lie that I narrate to myself. And then, a wet bead slipped from the fence of my eye to my cheeks. 

I am authentic. I am self-assured. I am strong. I can create a life I’m proud of. Repeat. 

Glancing at the dimly lit window of the building, a gentle smile spread across my face and I ran towards home, ready to live more boldly. Starting now. 

Sometimes, we just have to sweat our fears away and keep going.