At my grandfather’s funeral, my uncle—a diving instructor—told me all about his adventures at sea. I sat on a peeling leather sofa, watching his video recordings of sharks and reefs as he told me the ocean needed us now more than ever before. In the silence of the seven days, with only my Additional Maths textbook offering its condolences, I felt a profound sense of belonging—that if I chose a different path, I would live the rest of my life haunted by my own reflection, wondering what could have been.

That was the first time I truly wanted something. Having spent most of my life a social outcast, I had learnt early on that reducing your expectations was the only way to be happy—I rejected people and opportunities before they could reject me. If others dreamt of the sun and the moon, I was content with being the tide, always in pursuit but never within reach. But as the tide is drawn by the moon, so too was I towards this field, and at 18 years old, I used my angpao money to apply for a Bachelor of Science in Marine Environmental Chemistry.

Time stood still when I received my acceptance email. I kept waiting to be woken up, but what I held in my hand was real. I couldn’t stop myself from crying—I hadn’t realized how much it meant to me and how badly I wanted it until it was no longer just a dream. The years leading up to and during the pandemic had not been kind to me, and my grades had suffered as a result. Attending university at all was less an expectation and more a wistful hope in my eyes. As I read through the email, memorizing its contents, I realized the universe was taking a chance on me, a chance I was determined to prove was justified.

I entered university with no intent to make friends. I was to keep my head down, interact just enough to complete group assignments, and then leave. The college life portrayed in influencer vlogs, movies, and pamphlets eluded me; long walks around the campus lake and passive birdwatching satiated my social needs enough. In my tiny cohort of eight, I never learnt their names because I was convinced those four years would pass with little significance. I could have never known just how much it would mean to me.

It began with a suggestion, a five-minute break during a class. My lecturer, noting that I enjoyed writing, asked if I wanted to join our marine science student union, and two of my classmates, who were members themselves, supported this idea. So I applied and found myself in the position of social media director, promoting faculty activities and events. Of course, there was friction. Years of solitude and reclusion made me hostile, skeptical, and always assuming the worst. It was only when I realized my peers truly wanted the best for me and were willing to talk through our differences that I started to see them as friends.

In 2023, we held a Mid-Autumn potluck event. I had never truly enjoyed Mid-Autumn before. A festival about appreciating the beauty of the moon, celebrating togetherness and memories, but every year, I always thought back to my first Mid-Autumn—when I hid from my childhood bully in a dusty storage room, crying until the moon set. Though my mother had coaxed me outside with mooncake that time, I never left the storage room, and I never dared look at the moon.

Image

Chan Yi Ying with friends from the China-ASEAN College of Marine Sciences

The Mid-Autumn of 2023, I lit lanterns with my friends—they were more than just my classmates now; I could truly call them my friends. I shared snacks with my peers and laughed and cheered as our lecturers broke out into impromptu karaoke. Even students from different faculties had stumbled into our gathering, but we welcomed them all the same. Though the night was cloudy, and the telescope we borrowed was unceremoniously stored away, it was the first time I saw how bright the moon could be, standing under its silvery light with the friends I made at our university. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.

By Chan Yi Ying
2021/09
Marine Environmental Chemistry