A conversation with my father recently felt like a dream.

Not in the sentimental way — more in the way dreams distort time, memory, and distance.

We spoke like people who hadn’t lived so many separate years. And maybe that’s what felt surreal: how normal it all seemed.

Growing up in China, moving to Australia was once the dream — a faraway idea shaped by books, ambition, and the quiet promise of a different kind of freedom.

Now, I live that dream every day. I’m an Australian citizen. A professional journalist. I report with the kind of freedom I once could only imagine.

And yet, going back to China — the place I was born, the place I still write about — has become another kind of dream.

It’s not that I can’t go. No one’s ever told me I shouldn’t. And I don’t believe I would be in danger if I did.

But the risk was never about me.

Over the years, I’ve interviewed hundreds of people inside China — people who spoke openly about their lives, their losses, and their hopes, sometimes at great personal risk.

I’ve always known that returning isn’t just about me. If I were ever questioned about my reporting or asked about the people I’ve spoken to, how could I realistically protect them — if not by pretending I didn’t remember, or simply saying no?

So for now, I choose to wait — not out of fear, but out of responsibility. One day, I hope I’ll return in a professional capacity. But when I do, I want to know I’m not putting anyone else at risk just by crossing that border.

People often tell me, “you’re so brave”.

But I’ve never felt that way.

Bravery belongs to those still inside — the reporters, artists, ordinary citizens who speak truth knowing it could cost them everything.

I write from a peaceful, first-world country that gives me freedom of speech, legal protection, and distance.

To call what I do “brave” feels dishonest. Even indulgent. I won’t accept that compliment — not when so many others bear far more.

Still, the past seven years haven’t been easy.

Distance takes its own kind of toll. Not being able to move freely — to return to certain places, to see people face-to-face — means I’ve had to rely on memory more than I ever wanted to.

And during some of the most difficult periods in my life, I had no map. No experience to draw from. No room to defend myself. And no certainty that I could ask for help without consequence.

It was a time of pressure. But also a time of profound clarity.

Because pain, when it isn’t numbing or overwhelming, has the power to strip everything back. It quiets the noise. It shows you what matters. What you can live without. And what you can’t.

When you’re able to sit with it, pain can become a mirror — revealing what’s essential, what’s false, and what’s worth holding onto.

It’s hard to describe, but there’s a kind of assurance that came from those low moments.

Not because I felt strong — but because even in the confusion, I could hear myself. Not the version shaped by institutions, or expectations, or even fear — but the core voice that said: you’re still here; you’re still you.

Some people call it “subjectivity”. I think of it more simply: presence.

It’s what remains when everything else is uncertain — the knowledge that you’re not performing for anyone. You’re not positioning. You’re not surviving through someone else’s permission.

You’re just there, in your life, aware of what it costs, and what it’s worth.