Pain becomes a song and people can cross the boat
Late autumn sycamore leaves strewn across the sidewalk, making a soft, crunching sound underfoot. I hurried to the community center, clutching a stack of freshly printed handouts. Today was the first day of the Mockingbird Charity Foundation's psychological counseling class. The morning breeze was chilly, but it couldn't dispel the warmth in my heart.
A dozen people, mostly women, ranging in age from their early twenties to their fifties, had gathered at the entrance of the activity center. Their faces wore a similar apprehension, yet their eyes gleamed with anticipation. This reminded me of myself when I first entered the writing workshop two years ago.
"Good morning, Teacher Mo!" A young girl with a ponytail recognized me and nervously clutched the strap of her backpack. "I...I'm your reader."
I smiled as I pushed open the glass door of the activity center. "Just call me Little Fish. Welcome to Mockingbird."
In the classroom, sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting warm patches of light on the wooden floor. I stood at the podium, looking out at the twenty or so pairs of eyes below, and suddenly felt a sense of trance. Two years ago, I was a bird trapped in a golden cage; now, I was leading others to find the way to flight.
"Today we're going to talk about identifying emotional manipulation." I opened the PowerPoint presentation, and the first case study appeared on the screen: "When someone, under the guise of love, continually erodes your boundaries..."
Halfway through the class, a woman in the back row, who had been keeping her head down, suddenly raised her hand. She was about forty years old, wearing a plain gray coat, and her fingers trembled slightly with nervousness.
"My husband..." she choked up, "He's always checking my phone and won't let me see friends alone. Every time I object, he says it's because he loves me too much..."
The classroom fell silent, everyone's eyes fixed on the woman who had bravely spoken out. I walked over to her and gently patted her shoulder. "This isn't love, it's control. You deserve respect, not surveillance."
After class, the woman stayed to consult me. Her name was Lin Wei, an elementary school teacher who had been married for fifteen years and had always lived under her husband's close surveillance.
"I tried to leave," she said, wiping away tears, "but he threatened to hurt my parents."
I pulled the foundation's assistance brochure from my bag: "We can provide you with legal support and temporary housing."
After seeing Lin Wei off, I sat alone in the classroom sorting through materials. The setting sun cast a golden hue over the tables and chairs. My phone rang. It was Chen Que.
"Don't forget the celebration party tonight." His voice was tinged with laughter. "Lawyer Li and Zhou Ling will be there."
I checked the time. "I have an interview to do. I'll go right over after it."
The interview took place at the foundation's office with a reporter from a well-known media outlet. It went smoothly until the reporter asked about Gu Yanshen's recent situation.
"Do you know what he's been doing lately?"
I calmly put down my teacup. "We haven't been in touch for a long time. I heard he's still receiving psychotherapy."
This was the truth. Ever since that fleeting glimpse at the book launch, Gu Yanshen had vanished from the face of the earth. Occasionally, I heard from Zhou Ling that he had sold all his company shares and moved to a small town in the south.
After the interview, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in my office. The lights were already turning on, and the city's skyline was clearly visible in the night. This city, which once suffocated me, has now become a platform for me to help others.
The celebration dinner was held at a private restaurant. When I arrived, everyone was already there. Lawyer Li had traded his usual formal suit for a soft sweater; Zhou Ling was opening a bottle of wine for the waiter; and Chen Que was discussing the menu with the chef—a scene so heartwarming it made my eyes warm.
"Our heroine is here!" Lawyer Li raised his glass. "Congratulations on the official launch of the Mockingbird Foundation!"
The sound of wine glasses clinking against each other was crisp and melodious. Zhou Ling quietly handed me an envelope: "This is the donation that Mr. Gu asked me to pass on. It will be used for the operation of the foundation."
I opened the envelope. Inside was a check with a number of zeros following the amount. The postscript was a simple message: "I hope this can help more people in need."
After dinner, Chen Que walked me home. The moonlight was beautiful, and we strolled slowly along the riverbank. The water shimmered in the moonlight, a fine silver shimmer. The neon lights on the other side of the river were reflected in the water, like a flowing painting.
"I'm going on a business trip to the United States next month," Shen Que said suddenly. "There's an international forum on women's rights that's invited you to speak as China's representative."
I stopped. "Me?"
"Yes." He turned to face me, his eyes serious. "Your story and the work of your foundation have attracted international attention."
The evening breeze ruffled his hair, and the whistle of a cargo ship on the river blared long and distant. At that moment, I suddenly realized clearly that my life had sailed towards a wider ocean.
The next day was the foundation's first consultation day. I arrived at the office early, only to find a long line already forming outside. A young girl wept over her phone, a middle-aged man nervously rubbed his hands, and a white-haired grandmother waited, supported by her daughter.
Lin Wei also came. Today she changed into a bright yellow sweater and looked much more energetic.
"I've decided to divorce." She held my hand. "Thank you for letting me know that I deserve better."
Throughout the day, I listened to over twenty stories. Each one was different, yet all felt so similar—all depicting control disguised as love, all depicting the erosion of self. By the time I left work, I was so exhausted I could barely stand up straight, yet I felt a surge of strength within.
Late at night, I was alone in my office, sorting through today's case records. A light rain began to fall outside the window, and the raindrops tapped against the glass, like the whispers of countless souls.
The phone suddenly rang. It was an unfamiliar number. I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up.
"Is this Ms. Mo Xiaoyu?" an unfamiliar male voice said, "I'm the producer of the program 'Window to the Soul.' I'd like to invite you for an interview..."
After I hung up the phone, I couldn't calm down for a long time. "Window to the Soul" is the most well-known psychological interview program in the country. Being able to appear on that stage means I can help more people.
A week later, I stood on the set of "Window to the Soul." The lights were blazing, the camera was cold, but I felt calm inside. The host asked about my darkest moment, and I recounted the rainy night when I was trapped under surveillance.
"What finally made you come out?"
"It's writing." I looked at the camera, as if I were looking at the helpless me I once was. "When I discovered that my pain could be transformed into strength to help others, I was reborn."
After the show's taping, I received an anonymous bouquet of white lilies in my dressing room. Inside the bouquet was a card with a simple blessing: "May you always fly free."
The font is familiar, but I don't want to delve into it. Some pains have already scabbed over, and some forgiveness needs no words.
Three months later, I stood on the podium of an international forum. In the audience sat experts, scholars, and activists from around the world. In English, I told my story and the mission of the Mockingbird Foundation.
"Once, my tears could only soak my pillow; now, they turn into raindrops that nourish other people's hearts." At the end of the speech, there was prolonged applause.
On the day I returned home, Chen Que met me at the airport, holding a large bouquet of sunflowers, standing out among the crowd.
"Welcome home." He handed me the flowers with warm eyes.
On the car ride back to the city, he casually said, "I applied to be transferred to the foundation as a legal advisor."
I looked at him in surprise.
"There are some journeys," he smiled, "I want to take with you."
Outside the car window, the city's outline gradually became clear in the twilight. I knew that somewhere in this city, someone was still struggling in the darkness. But I also knew that more and more people would raise torches to light the way for each other.
Those tears have turned into light that illuminates others; those pains have turned into a boat that ferries others.
My story is just one of millions of stories. What is important is that every story is being written, every light is being passed on, and every boat is sailing on its way.
As the night deepens and the lights come on, I know that we will all find our own light.
Turn your past tears into light that illuminates others
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