One Education to Another

I didn’t realize how invisible I had become until I moved to a place where silence wasn’t the default. 

In China, education meant doing what I was told. We memorized answers and recited them in unison. Every student walked the same path, and the destination was a test. I learned early to keep my head down, stay ahead, and never fall behind. I was good at it. But I didn’t know then that there are other kinds of education ones that don’t involve chalkboards or rankings. 

When I came to the U.S. in high school, I brought the same mindset: work hard, don’t complain, don’t lose. At first, that got me by. I aced math tests, did my assignments on time, and earned my teachers’ approval. But I didn’t talk. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to take up space. Even when I didn’t understand something, I stayed silent and tried to figure it out myself. That’s how I was raised, not only at school, but also home. 

My mom and I moved into a rented basement not long after arriving. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough. It had windows, light, and air. I never saw it as small, rather, I saw it as stability. My mother worked three jobs: an accountant, front desk of a family doctor on the side, and cooking for another family. I rarely saw her sit down. She never lectured me about hard work—she lived it. She never said she was tired, but I saw it in the way she leaned against the wall taking off her shoes. That was the kind of education I never got in school: quiet persistence. 

We didn’t talk about “identity” or “self-expression”. I didn’t even know those were things people thought about until I came here. In my new classes, students spoke their minds, sometimes without raising their hands. They talked about how they felt, what they believed. At

first, I thought it was disrespectful. But slowly, I realized it was something else: ownership. They believed their thoughts were worth sharing. I didn’t, yet. 

There was no dramatic turning point. It was gradual. During junior year, I applied for a leadership position in the physics club. It was a space I mostly spent my year at, but I stayed in the background. I wasn’t the loudest or most confident, but I had ideas, and I cared. Writing that application felt like quietly stepping into the light. I wasn’t sure I’d be chosen, but I was. That simple “yes” changed how I saw myself. I stopped waiting for others to validate me. I started acting like someone who belonged. That was when I realized leadership isn’t about volume. It’s about initiative. 

Later, I joined the robotics team. I wasn’t the loudest, but I was dependable. When we needed someone to figure out a mechanism or fix a part at the last minute, I was there. I started seeing myself as a builder, a problem solver. The late nights troubleshooting code, redesigning components, or debating strategy taught me a kind of communication I didn’t learn in English class: how to collaborate, listen, and speak up when it mattered. 

At the same time, I was working. Delivering for DoorDash after school and on weekends. Some people say that’s just a job, but I see it differently. Every delivery reminded me that people live different lives behind each door. Some houses were huge, others looked like ours. And in every one, someone was waiting for food they didn’t make themselves. I started to see patterns—who tipped well, who didn’t, which neighborhoods felt safe. It made me sharper, more observant, more aware. That’s education, too. 

Then there was caregiving. My mom doesn’t ask for much, but I noticed when she was too exhausted to carry groceries or too sore to bend. I started taking more initiative. Not out of obligation, but out of respect. Not everything has to be said to be understood.

Eventually, I stopped seeing education as something that only happens in a classroom. I’ve learned just as much from watching my mom’s resilience as from solving physics problems. Just as much from late-night deliveries and fixing robot arms as from textbooks. And I’ve learned that strength isn’t about being silent and pushing through alone. It’s about knowing when to speak up, when to lead, and when to ask for help. 

I used to think being strong meant hiding weakness. Now I think it means being real. Being grateful, but not passive. Being proud of where I come from, but not limited by it. I’m still learning, and I always will be. But now, I know how to learn from more than just a lesson plan.