Yuchen Li

Let me show you the 18-year story between me and emotional numbness.

Between me and the world, there seemed to be a thin, fragile membrane.

It diluted my joy, and it blocked out the weight of sorrow.

When others laughed, I followed with a smile; when others grieved, I learned to bow my head and fix my gaze upon the floor.

It wasn’t until ten years later that I learned from a therapist this state had a name—emotional numbness.

It was my body’s way of protecting me, a defense built to withstand unbearable pain.

It severed my connection to feelings, leaving all my senses suspended in stillness.

Back then, I was like a hollow shell, stripped of judgment, striving only to imitate others in order to “grow into” a so-called normal person.

I became a bystander, standing between the world and “the others”—watching coldly, yet unable to touch.

I could not truly feel grief or joy, but my body—through headaches, nosebleeds—carried every trace of suffering.

A decade later, when I finally grew flesh and blood again, when I began to feel genuine joy and sorrow,

I longed to reach back and gently touch that child I once was—

The one who stumbled through the fog of emotion, searching so hard.

You have endured so much.

Let me take over now, and tell your story.