30岁的我，依旧反叛，依旧不听话。
曾经，“未成年”和“学生”像两层天然的保护壳，让人可以在某种程度上试探边界，甚至带着一点莽撞去挑战规则。那时候的错误，好像都可以被原谅，被归结为“还年轻”。可一旦身份发生转变，这些缓冲突然消失，人也开始变得谨慎、小心，甚至在很多时候学会了自我反省。那股不计后果的冲劲，似乎被一点点消磨掉了。
十几岁、二十出头的时候，我是个标准的“愤青”。那时候的信息还没有完全被封闭，新闻还很真实，社会问题清晰可见。我总是忍不住表达自己的看法，试图参与和改变，甚至天真地相信，只要有人持续发声，事情就会朝着更好的方向发展。那时的生活其实比现在更能让人喘息，也正因为如此，我曾经真心相信，中国是有机会慢慢变成一个更理想的社会的。
但后来，一切似乎在悄然变化。空间在收缩，声音在减少，现实变得更复杂也更沉重。我逐渐意识到，个体的力量，甚至是一小群人的努力，在某些结构面前是如此微不足道。这种认知并不轰烈，却很持久，像慢慢渗进身体的一种疲惫感。
小时候父母常说：“你就是刚出厂的玻璃，还有毛边，社会会把你的棱角磨平。”当时不明白。后来经历多了，被现实反复打磨之后，才真正明白这句话的分量。那些所谓的“棱角”，不是一夜之间消失的，而是在一次次妥协、一次次沉默中，被一点点削去。
应试教育的核心，跟知识没什么关系，而是在于训练一种心理结构——如何承受压力，如何压抑情绪，如何在没有外界支持的情况下自我消化一切。出国之后，这一点变得更加明显。很多人习惯通过心理咨询来处理内心，而我更习惯自己想。
我也曾经以为，中国的问题在于“法治不够”，而西方社会则更讲规则、更公平。但后来慢慢意识到，现实远没有那么简单。除了制度，还有人本身。所谓“关系”，并不是某个国家独有的产物，只是呈现方式不同而已。人与人之间的网络、信任、资源交换，在任何社会都存在，只是有的更隐性，有的更显性。
一路走来，我看着身边的人一点点改变。曾经锋利的，变得圆滑；曾经激烈的，变得沉默；曾经充满期待的，变得叹气。那种变化不是突然发生的，而是被时间、环境和现实一点点塑造出来的。很多人并不是不再思考，而是选择不再表达。
而我，好像也变了，又好像没有。
我学会了沉默的边界，学会了在表达和自我保护之间寻找平衡，也更清楚现实的重量。但有些东西，始终没有被完全磨掉。那种对不合理的本能反应，那种想要发问、想要表达的冲动，依然存在。
30岁的我，可能不再像过去那样莽撞，但也不打算彻底顺从。如果说曾经的反叛是出于天真，那么现在的“不听话”，更像是一种清醒之后的选择。不是因为看不清现实，而是正因为看清了一部分，才更不愿意完全融入其中。也许我改变不了什么，但至少，我还可以决定自己成为什么样的人。
At 30, I am still rebellious. Still unwilling to comply.
There was a time when being “a minor” or “a student” felt like a kind of built-in protection. It allowed you to test boundaries, even to act recklessly at times, without bearing the full consequences. Mistakes could always be explained away as “youth.” But once those identities faded, so did the buffer. People become more cautious, more restrained, and often begin to self-regulate in ways they never did before. That raw, impulsive energy—the kind that doesn’t calculate consequences—slowly wears away.
In my teens and early twenties, I was what people would call an “angry youth.” Back then, information still felt relatively open, the news more tangible, and social issues more visible. I couldn’t help but speak out, to express my views, to try to participate—to change things, even. I genuinely believed that if enough people kept speaking, things would move in a better direction. Life at the time felt more breathable, and perhaps because of that, I believed China had a real chance to gradually become a more ideal society.
But over time, things began to shift—quietly, almost imperceptibly. The space for expression narrowed. Voices grew fewer. Reality became heavier, more complex. I started to realize that the power of an individual—or even a small group—is often negligible against certain structures. This realization wasn’t dramatic or sudden. It was slow, persistent—like a kind of fatigue seeping into the body.
When I was younger, my parents used to say, “You’re like freshly made glass, still with rough edges. Society will smooth you out.” I didn’t understand it then. Now I do. Those “edges” don’t disappear overnight. They are worn down gradually—through compromise, through silence, through repeated encounters with reality.
Looking back, I’ve come to think that exam-oriented education was never really about knowledge. It was about shaping a psychological framework: how to endure pressure, how to suppress emotion, how to process everything alone without external support. After moving abroad, this became even more apparent. Many people here turn to therapy to deal with their inner world. I, on the other hand, am more used to figuring things out on my own.
I used to think that China’s problem was a lack of rule of law, while Western societies were more rule-based, more fair. But reality is far more complicated than that. Beyond systems, there are always people. What we call “connections” or “relationships” is not unique to any one country—it simply manifests differently. Networks of trust, exchange, and influence exist everywhere; in some places they are explicit, in others more subtle.
Along the way, I’ve watched people around me change. Those who were once sharp have become smooth. Those who were once outspoken have grown quiet. Those who were once hopeful now sigh more often than they speak. These changes don’t happen all at once—they are shaped gradually by time, environment, and circumstance. It’s not that people stop thinking; many simply choose to stop expressing.
As for me, I’ve changed—and yet, in some ways, I haven’t.
I’ve learned the boundaries of silence. I’ve learned to balance expression with self-preservation. I understand the weight of reality far more clearly now. But some things haven’t been fully worn away—the instinctive resistance to what feels unjust, the urge to question, to speak.
At 30, I may no longer be as reckless as I once was, but I have no intention of becoming fully compliant.
If my earlier rebellion came from naivety, then this version of “disobedience” comes from clarity. It’s not that I fail to see reality—it’s precisely because I see part of it that I refuse to fully merge into it.
Maybe I can’t change much. But at the very least, I can still decide what kind of person I choose to be.