那时的我，在学院学习程序与算法，白天上课，晚上刷题、练英文，一步步准备转学SFU或UBC。我憧憬未来做一名程序员，不为光鲜——只想靠一技之长，为这个养育我的家减轻一点负担。我们是移民家庭，没有背景，没有关系网，我能走多远，全靠自己。
我凌晨四点起床，先煮饭、再念书。外头天未亮，窗外淅沥小雨，雨点敲在树叶上，发出沙沙的声音。我戴上耳机默背英语单词，心里还在复盘昨天的算法题。我穿上厚外套，打着伞，背上书包，锁上门。那一刻，我以为自己要去赴一场命运的约——却没想到，真正等着我的，是人生的一场撞击。
不知过了多久，我在雨中的水泥地上悠悠转醒。耳边响着陌生男人的呼喊：“快醒醒！你没事吧？”模糊的视线里，一个路人抱着我，正轻轻拍打我的后背。他穿着深色的外套，脸上是急切和不知所措的交织。
我费力地睁开眼，嘴唇几乎动不了，只挤出破碎的句子：“我……我今天……要考试……你能……打电话……帮我请假吗？”我哆嗦着从衣袋里拿出学生证，递给他。他愣了一下，随即郑重地点头。
接下来的画面是断裂的。救护车的警笛划破雨声，担架、刺鼻的消毒水味、急救室的灯光、医生的询问、我虚弱得连一个完整的“yes”都说不出来——一切像被冲刷过的记忆片段，只剩下苍白。
我没有第一时间打电话给父母。父亲还在中国睡觉，母亲或许准备上班。我们这个家早就习惯了“各自承压”，彼此心照不宣地节省每一次打扰。我做的第一件事，是联系了我的闺蜜——那个和我一起选了这门课、也正准备考试的女孩。
我只发了几个字：“我被车撞了，在医院。”不到几个小时，她就出现在病房门口。她没问我为什么走路会出事，只是安安静静地陪着我，一边听医生讲我脚部多处骨折和骨裂，一边偷偷地红了眼眶。
哪怕我将来只能钉着钢板、吃着抗抑郁药、坐在一个世俗眼里“羞耻”的前台岗位上，我也要省出一笔钱，送她一份属于我全部尊重的礼物。只要我还有一口饭吃，我就记得她当初不顾一切赶来的身影。
The Pause Button: A Car, A Crosswalk, and the Moment Everything Changed
At 21, life was supposed to be picking up speed. But a sudden car accident pressed pause on everything.
Back then, I was studying programming and algorithms at college—attending lectures during the day, grinding through problem sets and practicing English at night. I was working hard to transfer to SFU or UBC. My goal wasn’t to be flashy. I just wanted a degree, a stable job as a programmer, and a way to ease the financial burden on my family. We were immigrants—with no connections, no background. How far I could go depended entirely on myself.
The accident happened on the day of an exam.
I had woken up at 4 a.m.—cooked breakfast, reviewed my notes. Outside, the sky was still dark, rain tapping lightly on the leaves. I put on headphones and recited vocabulary lists while mentally reviewing yesterday’s algorithm questions. I pulled on a thick coat, slung my backpack over my shoulder, opened the front door, and stepped out into the quiet dawn.
I thought I was heading to fulfill a plan.
But what I didn’t know was that fate had already rewritten the script.
Like every other morning, I stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the green light. The signal changed, and I stepped forward. Halfway across the street, a car came speeding from the right.
No warning. Just the sudden tear of tires through rain.
There was no time to react.
One violent impact.
Airborne.
Then pavement.
My mind went completely blank—like someone had pulled the plug.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious.
When I came to, I was lying on cold, wet concrete. Rain hit my face. Blood blurred my vision. I couldn’t breathe properly. A man’s voice rang in my ears, panicked:
“Wake up! Are you okay? Wake up!”
Through half-closed eyes, I saw a stranger in a dark coat, crouched beside me, gently patting my back. His face was full of alarm and helplessness.
I tried to speak, but my mouth barely worked. All I could manage were broken words:
“I… I have an exam today… Can you… call the school… for me?”
With shaking fingers, I pulled my student ID from my pocket and handed it to him. He looked stunned for a moment, then nodded solemnly.
Everything that followed came in fragments.
The wail of the ambulance.
The sharp smell of antiseptic.
The blur of white lights.
Doctors shouting questions.
I couldn’t even say a full “yes.”
I was wheeled into the emergency room, ceiling tiles sliding above me. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be hanging by a thread.
Half of my body had gone numb. My legs wouldn’t move.
The doctors said, “We can’t make any conclusions yet. We’ll have to wait for surgery and see.”
But what broke me wasn’t the pain—it was the overwhelming sense of aloneness.
I didn’t call my parents first.
My dad was asleep back in China.
My mom was probably preparing for work.
In our family, we had long learned to carry our own weight. We rarely disturbed each other unless it was absolutely necessary. So the first person I reached out to… was my best friend—the one who was taking the same class, preparing for the same exam.
I only sent a few words:
“I got hit by a car. I’m in the hospital.”
Within hours, she was at my bedside.
She didn’t ask how it happened. She just sat there quietly, listening as the doctor explained the symptoms from the car accident, her eyes silently welling up.
That moment changed something in me.
No matter what happens in the future—no matter how poor I am, how weak I feel—I will always find a way to repay the kindness of the one who showed up for me in the darkest hour.
Even if I one day end up sitting behind a “shameful” front-desk job in the eyes of the world, held together with metal screws and antidepressants, I will set aside money to buy her a gift worthy of my full respect.
As long as I have food to eat, I will remember that she came.
Later that day, I suddenly remembered—I had a shift scheduled at the Chinese restaurant I worked at.
Half-dazed, I begged the nurse to hand me my backpack. I reached for my phone to call my boss and explain. But just as my fingers touched the zipper, the door swung open.
It was my mom.
I had thought I could keep pretending to be strong.
But the moment I saw her—soaked hair, panic in her eyes, rushing to my side—I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I burst into tears.
“Mom… I can’t move my legs…”
That sentence—“I’m fine”—had been stuck in my throat all day.
But in front of her, I finally let it go.
Since that day, my life was forced onto a different track.
I was no longer just the STEM student typing code and grinding through problem sets. I began learning how to confront trauma, how to accept unpredictability, and most importantly—how to keep standing, even if no one was there to hold me up.
But the greatest lesson I learned was this:
There are people who show up when you’re soaring, and those who show up when you’ve fallen.
The warmth and coldness of human relationships became painfully clear during those hospital days. Some of the classmates who once laughed with me never replied again. But the ones I’ll never forget were the girls who came to see me during the first time in my life I brushed past death. They didn’t bring expensive gifts. They didn’t offer dramatic comfort.
They just came.
And that quiet, unwavering presence—the feeling that I hadn’t been abandoned—meant more than anything. That year, I was twenty-one. It was the first time I hit rock bottom. But it was also the first time I truly understood:
To simply stay alive—that, too, is an act of courage.
