It started with a dusty paperback my father had plucked off one of Beijing’s endless secondhand bookstore shelves. I was fifteen, stuck somewhere between memorizing Tang Dynasty poetry for school exams and writing overwrought diary entries about the boy in my math class who had no idea I existed. The book was Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
To my teenaged brain, the idea of cracking open yet another “classic” felt like punishment. My parents’ shelves were already overflowing with intimidating tomes of Confucian philosophy and Russian epics so heavy you could crush a cockroach with them. But then, I opened it—and reader, I was hooked.
The Elizabeth Bennet Effect
Elizabeth Bennet was unlike any woman I had read about before. Here was someone bold enough to spar verbally with Mr. Darcy, refuse a marriage proposal (gasp, the audacity!), and walk her muddy boots all over the rigid social rules of Regency England—while maintaining a kind of vulnerable self-awareness I found deeply relatable.
But what really got me wasn’t just Elizabeth’s wit or her unapologetic sense of self. It was her relationship with vulnerability. At fifteen, I thought strength meant never letting your guard down, keeping every feeling sealed tight. Yet Elizabeth—who was sharp enough to verbally dismantle both Darcy and the truly insufferable Mr. Collins—still had space to self-reflect, admit wrongs, and grow. She let her pride (and Darcy his prejudice) evolve into something more. That balance of strength and softness? Life-changing.
But because I was a teenager and prone to melodrama, I missed the memo about balance. Instead, I rebranded myself as something of a snarky Elizabeth Bennet wannabe. At the time, it mostly meant reading people’s zodiac signs so I could deliver biting (and often terribly inaccurate) judgments about their personalities and acting like I was so above romance...all while my heart pounded faster every time someone texted me “hey :)”. (Spoiler: this did not go well.)
Love and Lo Mein: Austen in Real Life
By the time I hit my twenties, Pride and Prejudice had become a quiet blueprint for navigating love in the chaos of Beijing—and later, the even bigger chaos of New York. For instance: When I was set up on a blind date with a guy whose first conversation topic was Bitcoin (and not, say, whether I liked spicy food or had siblings), I dodged that dinner faster than Elizabeth refusing Mr. Collins.
Other times, Elizabeth gently reminded me not to be too quick to judge. Like the time I nearly wrote off a friend-of-a-friend for wearing crocs (orange ones—why??) to our first group dinner outing, only to find out later that 1) they matched his volunteer firefighter uniform and 2) he could quote random lines of Li Bai’s poetry from memory. Reader, we ended up dating for two years, and the crocs became kind of charming. (Okay, tolerable.)
Three Lessons I Owe to Pride and Prejudice
Jane Austen does a fine job of dishing out life lessons without wagging her finger in your face, and over the years, I found a few that stick like leftover spaghetti:
1. First Impressions Aren’t Facts
We get so many “Darcy moments” in life—misreading someone’s silence as arrogance or their fashion choices as personality flaws. But time and vulnerability often expose depths we can’t see through a quick glance. So next time you’re tempted to write someone off because they don’t check all your mental boxes, take a breath. Besides, no one is at their sparkliest during those initial small-talk abyss moments.
2. Don’t Underestimate a Good No
All dating and relationship advice boils down to this one truth: if it’s a “no” in your gut, honor it. Elizabeth shows us refusing something safe (ahem, Mr. Collins) is infinitely better than settling for mediocrity. Of course, this applies beyond love, too. Whether it’s saying no to an extra dumpling at dinner or yet another doomed situationship, let “no” be your friend.
3. Leave Room to Survive Your Own Mistakes
Flaws make us human; they also make us learn. Elizabeth Bennet got her happily-ever-after not because she avoided mistakes, but because she embraced her missteps as stepping stones. If my twenties taught me anything, it’s this: You’ll survive sending that weird late-night text, forgetting your date’s name momentarily (yes, I did that once), and tripping over your own emotional shoelaces. Darcy came back, and he knew what he was doing.
From Page to Practice
A decade and many loves later, my well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice sits quietly on my shelf, pages soft with use. It's a reminder that strength and vulnerability are two sides of the same coin—a lesson my younger, feistier self is still learning.
And in the messy push and pull of modern love, I like to think Jane Austen would’ve loved the absurdity of today’s romances. Maybe Elizabeth Bennet in 2023 would’ve ghosted Wickham after two dry text exchanges, swerved Darcy’s first awkward attempt at a DM, but eventually bumped into him at a bookstore over the last copy of some obscure poetry collection. I'd like to imagine her half-smirking as she said, “Are you always this brooding, or is it just a Tuesday thing?”
Because life, like love itself, should carry just enough wit to keep things interesting.
