It started with a blank page and a cup of oolong tea. Those were the constants I leaned on as I stared into the abyss of a Word document, the blinking cursor taunting me like an unspoken "So? What now?" Writing isn’t new to me—I've spent years translating verses so heavy with longing that you’d think love itself was a calligraphy brush dipped in heartbreak. But this particular challenge? It was different. It wasn’t just a project; it was a mirror, and I had no choice but to stare.
When Words Turn Into a Wrestling Match
Here’s the thing about writing a “hard piece”: it forces you to grab onto uncomfortable truths and wrestle them into sentences. If you’ve ever tried to have "the talk" with someone—a partner, a friend, or that too-flirty barista—you’ll know what I mean. There’s a strange paralysis that comes with knowing what needs to be said but not quite knowing how to say it without the whole interaction collapsing like a bad Jenga tower.
For me, the struggle began a few months ago when my editor approached me: “Yuan, I’d love for you to write about long-distance relationships.” Easy enough... until it wasn’t.
Turns out, I wasn’t pulling these words from a professional, detached place of storytelling. No, this was autobiographical in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Because what do you do when you're writing a guide while still licking the wounds from the exact thing you're advising people on? Surprise! Long-distance love and I had broken up just weeks prior. My heart was still fractured, yet here I was, tasked with becoming the Dalai Lama of transoceanic connections.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t go smoothly.
My Muse Was a Hotpot Dinner Conversation
When all else fails, I turn to something comforting—food. The piece started to emerge one evening over a steaming hotpot at my parents’ Beijing apartment, flanked by stacks of pickled vegetables and bowls of noodles. My dad, being the historian, compared long-distance romance to the famous Tale of Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai—a tragic Chinese folktale where two students fall in love but are separated by societal expectations. That didn’t make me feel better. My mom, ever the pragmatist, suggested it’s like waiting for soup to boil: “You need patience. But if it takes too long, maybe it’s better to just eat something else.”
It hit me: I had been approaching this article all wrong. Instead of trying to wrap heartbreak in a pastel-colored bow, I needed to write it honestly. Long-distance relationships can be beautiful and excruciating in equal parts. People don’t need a manual to achieve perfection—they need reassurance that even when it falls apart, they’re not alone.
Finally, I had my angle. But putting my bruised feelings through the sieve of language was still no walk in Chaoyang Park.
The Three Lessons That Stuck With Me
Writing the piece left me with lessons that weren’t just about love but about how we handle our most complicated feelings. Here are the ones that matter most:
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Don’t Romanticize Sacrifice
There’s this myth—no, epidemic—that the greatest relationships require the greatest sacrifices. Books, movies, even K-dramas feed us the idea that we must suffer for love if it’s “real.” But in revisiting my own experience (and approximately 17 drafts), I realized love doesn’t demand a constant sacrifice of self. It can stretch you, yes, but it shouldn’t hollow you out. If your dream job or passion project exists on one shore and your long-distance partner lives on another, don’t choose between them—get curious about how you can have both. -
Clarity Is Kindness
I used to think leaving things unsaid was a form of compassion. Wrong. The hardest part of writing—or any tough conversation—is distilling vague thoughts into clear, explicit truths. For my partner and me, the hardest truth wasn’t that we didn’t love each other; it was that loving wasn’t going to be enough to bridge the Pacific. So, whether in relationships or work, aim for clarity. You don’t need to have all the answers right away, but a shared understanding will always get you further than silence. -
Stories Heal
When I finally submitted the article, I was terrified. I hit "send" the way you might confess feelings to a crush: half-dizzy with hope, half-certain it would explode in my face. But when I started getting messages from readers thanking me for my honesty, I realized how liberating it felt to turn my pain into something purposeful. By rewriting the story of my relationship—not as a failure, but as a chapter of growth—I slowly started to heal.
The Blink-and-Miss-It Moments
One particularly vivid memory stayed with me as I wrote. Last spring, during one of our occasional visits, my then-partner and I took a day trip outside Shanghai. We sat by the river eating tangyuan from a small food stand. The sticky rice balls were piping hot, stuffed with black sesame paste that spilled out onto our fingers and jackets. It was messy, imperfect, and unreasonably fun. I held onto that moment for months afterward, believing it would sustain us through the long nights apart.
But relationships can’t survive on memories alone. Looking back, I’m grateful for that snapshot, not because it justifies what we lost, but because it reminded me of what was good.
Wrapping Up with Oolong in Hand
So here’s the truth about writing a difficult piece—or trying to get through any difficult chapter of life: it’s not clean or linear. There will be days when the ideas (or feelings) refuse to come together, and you’ll wonder if you’re even equipped to finish what you started. But being vulnerable, letting yourself be cracked open, is where the real magic happens.
If you’re in the middle of something that feels impossible right now, let me be the first to tell you: You’ll make it through. Whether it’s heartbreak, a looming deadline, or both (life has a twisted sense of humor like that), it’s okay to take it one line—or one cup of tea—at a time. Take the breaks, eat the tangyuan, cry if you need to, and then get back to crafting your story.
Because at the end of the day, every blank page is just waiting for you to begin.
