Storytelling
The air was stifling, as if shrouded in a layer of damp heat, and the air smelled of chalk dust and paper.
Pan Qiu looked down and saw a test paper, both unfamiliar and familiar, spread out on the table. The handwriting was dense and seemed to urge her to write quickly. The electric fan at the end of the classroom creaked, but it couldn't dispel the heat and tension rising from her spine.
She turned her head, and in the halo of light by the window, her familiar deskmate was sitting quietly, head down, eyes and brows hidden in shadow.
With just one glance, she knew—she had dreamt of him again. But even knowing it was a dream, a sense of urgency still gripped her shoulders like an invisible hand, rendering her immobile.
Just as she could barely hear her own breathing, a voice that didn't belong here rang in her ears—deep, steady, yet carrying an undeniable power:
"Focus on telling the story well—about your problem, your path, and why it matters."
The voice seemed to come from a great distance, yet it echoed clearly in her heart. She subconsciously tried to find the person who spoke, but the scene before her began to blur: the examination room, her deskmate, the test paper... like a negative being gently pulled away, fading and disappearing layer by layer.
Pan Qiu suddenly opened her eyes, the deep and steady voice still echoing in her ears like aftershocks—"Focus on telling a good story."
The rain outside was fine and heavy, as if it were pouring down from a dream into reality.
She paused for a few seconds before realizing that it was Ethan's voice—the one she heard when she opened her office door at 10:30 p.m. two weeks ago.
Lying in bed, she recalled the details of that day: the dim light, his slightly reddened eyes, and the thick stack of papers on the table. Every day after that, she digested and implemented Ethan's advice—to let go of her obsession with perfection, to look at problems from a higher perspective, and to turn her research into a story that people could understand and were willing to listen to.
Unexpectedly, these words had been quietly absorbed by her mind and returned to her in a dream on the night when she was under the most pressure.
She glanced down at the time—the doctoral qualifying exam was less than five hours away.
She knew very well that this exam was not the end, but rather the first hurdle in a long journey. According to departmental regulations, the qualifying exams were reviewed by a committee of four to five professors.
In addition to her advisor Ethan serving as chair, there must also be a member from outside the field to ensure that the evaluation is not on technical details, but on the overall research approach and interdisciplinary communication skills; the remaining members are senior professors whom Ethan and the department decided upon in consultation.
Only through this can she officially stand on the doctoral track—there are still several years ahead to refine the topic, construct a structured research plan, and complete the formal proposal in the third year; after that, there is the final defense before graduation, which is usually completed in four to six years after enrollment, the length of time depends on the difficulty of the topic and the individual's progress.
Thinking of all this, she took a deep breath and got out of bed.
The sound of rain continued, as if drawing a slow and solemn prelude to this day.
She washed up early and put on the outfit she had planned for a long time: a white cotton shirt with a simple V-neck that accentuated her neckline, paired with a gray work skirt and black ballet flats—the same style she had seen the department head, Chase, wear at the orientation party—comfortable, understated, and professional. Delicate pearl earrings adorned her ears, and her hair was tied in a low ponytail, making her look both capable and gentle. She looked in the mirror, took a soft breath, as if encouraging herself.
Before leaving, Panqiu made a point of arriving more than half an hour early, just to go to Little Fox to buy coffee. It was her senior, Xu Qian, who had reminded her—preparing drinks for the committee was a small courtesy and could also ease the atmosphere a bit.
She was carrying a six-cup paper cup holder, and the smiling little fox drawn on the cups seemed even more vibrant in the morning light. She also casually took a small box of coffee creamer and put it in her bag.
The meeting room wasn't far from the coffee shop, and she arrived more than twenty minutes early. She first set up the projection equipment and then placed six cups of coffee in the center of the table. The white paper cups, brown cup sleeves, and fox pattern added a touch of lightness to the originally quiet and slightly tense space.
Footsteps sounded at the door. Ethan arrived ten minutes earlier than scheduled, and when he pushed the door open, he was also holding a cup of the same Little Fox drink.
He glanced at the row of coffees on the table and said softly, "Looks like we're on the same page." As he spoke, a barely perceptible smile played on his lips.
Pan Qiu suddenly remembered that night two weeks ago, when they walked side by side to the little fox's door, said goodnight to each other, and then said goodbye. She smiled and replied softly, "Great minds think alike."
Soon, the professors on the committee arrived one after another, and the air in the meeting room gradually became still.
At exactly ten o'clock, Panqiu took a deep breath and began to tell the story—
"One night a few weeks ago, I was on my way home, thinking about what I was going to talk about that day."
Three voices appeared in my head in turn.
The first voice is my own: 'I just need to revise this manuscript a little better.'
The second was my mother's voice: 'Why do you always put things off until the last minute?'
Then came my advisor's voice: 'Remember to look at the big picture—tell the story clearly, don't just present the data.'
These three voices are real, they come from people in my life, and now they reside in my mind.
She paused slightly, scanned the room, and then continued:
"When we think, we often think in language."
Sometimes it's your own voice, sometimes it's someone else's—it could be your parents, teachers, or close friends.
Psychologists call it 'inner language'—the process by which we talk to ourselves.
It helps us plan, solve problems, regulate emotions, and even shape what we perceive as our 'self'.
In other words, it's not just background noise, but the mind talking to itself.
She shook her head slightly as she spoke, pointed faintly to her head, and then continued, her tone becoming more focused:
"But we still don't know enough about it."
Current research on 'inner language' mostly comes from Western participants, primarily those who speak English.
We have almost no understanding of how it works in multilingual or cross-cultural individuals.
She smiled slightly, returning to that night at the beginning:
"When I walked home that night, my mother's voice was in Chinese—hurried and slightly anxious, just like when she was worried or blaming me."
My advisor's voice was in English—calm and restrained, reminding me to see the big picture.
And my own voice? I'm not even sure; perhaps it switches back and forth between the two languages depending on my emotions.
She slowed her speech and lowered her voice:
"This is exactly what I want to explore in my research."
We do not yet know whether the choice of language in one's inner speech changes when emotions change.
We don't know whether a critical remark sounds harsher in one language than in another;
Does a word of encouragement bring different comforts depending on the language used?
These are the questions I wanted to answer.
The meeting room was quiet, as if everyone was still on that slightly chilly night road. Ethan sat to her left, his gaze shifting between her projection and her—a smile and a subtle, unspoken approval in his eyes. Another committee member leaned forward slightly, seemingly making a mental note. A member from outside the field tapped the edge of his notebook lightly with his fingers, as if digesting the example just given. A professor from within the department wore a thoughtful expression.
Pan Qiu felt that subtle tension was steadily under her control, and her breathing gradually slowed down—the story had already drawn them in.
Next, she calmly and deliberately recounted the specific findings of the literature review she had conducted during this period.
She finished the last slide, her voice softly echoing in the conference room.
After a moment of silence, Ethan smiled and nodded: "Thank you for your report. Let's move on to the Q&A session."
She answered the first few questions, which revolved around research methods, data analysis, and theoretical framework, one by one. Her speech was steady, her palms were slightly sweaty, but she maintained eye contact with the questioner throughout.
The professor, who was not in the field and had a background in linguistics, was flipping through his notes when he suddenly looked up and asked:
In your own experience, when you are under a lot of stress, which language dominates your inner speech?
Pan Qiu paused for a moment, as if sifting through images in her mind. Different scenes flashed through her mind—in the kitchen, water in a pot was boiling and overflowing, the air was filled with the smell of burning, and her mother's voice rang out in Chinese, filled with reproach and sighs. But at this moment, in this conference room with a light gray carpet, she heard a different voice—at 10:30 that night, Ethan in his office was tapping his fingers lightly on the table, saying "Think about the big picture" and "Tell a good story."
She smiled slightly and replied in a light tone:
“When I’m in trouble, the English voice in my head sounds like my mentor, while the Chinese voice sounds like my mother.”
A burst of laughter filled the meeting room, tinged with knowing smiles and a sense of ease. Ethan, sitting opposite him, raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Pan Qiu added another sentence, her tone sincere and resolute:
“I trust both voices. One keeps me grounded academically, and the other gives me emotional stability.”
As the defense concluded, committee members rose one by one, leaving the meeting room with polite smiles and brief congratulations. Ethan tidied his notes, looked up at her, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.
"A good story."
He spoke softly, but softly enough for her to hear.
Pan Qiu was slightly taken aback, then smiled and kept those words to herself.
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