I often tell others that my abilities would have only earned me a place at Sun Yat-sen University, and that getting into Shanghai Jiao Tong University was nothing more than a stroke of "good fortune." Half of this is meant to please others, since no one truly cares where you come from, and they just want to hear what they want to hear; the other half serves as self-comfort, a way for me to accept my mistakes as mere moments of normalcy, or perhaps even as something I deserve. The truth is, I never have any special feeling towards the Universities. Whether it was Sun Yat-sen, Tsinghua, or Peking University, they were just names to me. I ended up at the university the score guided me to—one I had never even heard of before.
And that's simply how it was.
At SJTU, I buried myself into clubs, projects, competitions, and researches. There were moments of spontaneity, actions driven by ease, goals I wanted to achieve, and a desire to please others. Looking back, many goals I meticulously planned failed due to my hesitation. I feel an immense guilt towards my friends, classmates, family, and professors. I want to make it up to them, but the more I try, the more I fail. This guilt makes my words and actions stiff; seeing those around me grow distant, I got buried to the loss for not knowing what to do.
And that's simply how it was.
One day I heard the news of the "CICC girl" who tragically took her own life. Despite her many accolades, her impressive achievements, and the prestigious position she had secured, she chose to end it all, possibly due to a salary cut. The news stirred a brief roar online, but soon faded into silence, as though she had never existed. "Life doesn't discriminate; it takes and takes." I was shoked, and I found myself repeatedly asking: What do I really want?
I didn't know. I thought I wanted an academic career, the prestige of a top university, a good job, wealth, perhaps even to write novels... I wanted many things, but none of them truly resonated with me. It took me a long time to realize what I really wanted: a stable, secure life, to help and care for others, to watch my students and children grow, to witness them pursue and achieve their dreams, and to see the world change over time. I never wanted to change the world, or even make the slightest impact on it. I also just wanted to be hugged and told, "I know you've tried your best", and allowed me to cry all the time.
And that's simply how it was.
Sometimes, I wonder how a single decision back then has shaped where I am now -- how truly unpredictable the life can be. And honestly... I regret it. So why do I persist in research? The answer lies in my desire to protect those who have been told, "You're too bad," or "How could you not know this?"—words I, too, have heard far too often. I want to show them that research, especially in fields like AI and LLMs, is simply a job—one that requires no "talent." With the right skills and dedication, anyone can master it. If others reject you, it is not your fault or you are not good; all you need is time.
And that's all there is to it.
To fulfill these personal desires, I must excel at the job of "research." How far I can still go, I don't know—perhaps five years, one year, or maybe just the next two months. But when I lose my way, where will I turn?
Yet before I reach that point, I think... perhaps I need to cry a lot.
Contributors
Hua Tang