Eighteen: The Same Confusion, in a Different World

I asked Katherine,

“Do you still remember what it felt like to be eighteen?”

She shook her head.

“Too long ago. I can’t remember.”

But I remember mine.

In September 1990, I carried my luggage from Wuzhou, a small city in Guangxi in southern China, and arrived in Wuhan for the first time. I was eighteen years old. I had grown up speaking Cantonese at home. At that time, I could barely speak proper Mandarin.

I was put in Room 201, Building 507 — a six-person university dormitory, with three bunk beds neatly arranged.

On the first day, a classmate from a province known for very high exam scores heard my university entrance exam result. He gave a small nod and said, almost casually,

“With that score, back where I’m from, you probably wouldn’t have got into a proper university. Maybe only a technical college.”

I froze. It was only then that I understood. The gap between me and the world was not simply the gap between a small city and a big one. It was the gap between different starting points, different worlds, and different ways of seeing yourself.

Back then, my universe was the distance from Wuzhou to Wuhan. And even that was already large enough to leave me breathless.

Thirty-six years later, I was standing downstairs from our apartment in central Auckland, waiting for our youngest daughter, Ella, to come down.

Her eighteen is unfolding in an AI world whose direction I can no longer clearly see. She is studying law — a subject once built on books, cases, memory, argument, and years of careful training. But now even law is beginning to face artificial intelligence.

No one really knows what the legal profession will look like ten years from now. Ella worries about not making it through. Not because of her classmates. But because of an algorithm.

When I was eighteen, I did not even know where New Zealand was. At eighteen, she is facing things I could not have imagined. However large my universe felt, it was still on Earth. Hers may one day reach the galaxy.

Before we left, my eldest daughter, Ally, reminded me that I had not yet written Ella’s birthday card. So I quickly sat down and wrote a few lines. I did not think too much. I only felt that an eighteenth birthday should leave something behind. Something she might not fully understand on the day itself. Something she might come back to years later.

Our first stop was The Hunting Lodge.

As we drove in, the road stretched ahead of us between rows of trees. It was autumn. The leaves had changed colour and fallen across the ground. A gust of wind came through, and a few more leaves drifted down.

At the end of the lawn stood an old white house. Near the entrance, a cream-coloured vintage bicycle leaned quietly, with white flowers resting in its basket.

I said to Ally,

“These leaves only live through three seasons. But in autumn, they still shine so beautifully it almost hurts.”

Ally looked at the leaves for a moment, then nodded.

We walked inside. At lunch, Ella talked about her studies. She had received A grades in her other papers, but only a B+ in Law. She was worried about not making it through.

I said,

“If seventy-five percent of people are left behind, then as long as you stay in the top ten percent, you’ll be all right.”

Katherine said,

“That’s really hard.”

I paused. And after that, I did not bring it up again. But I remembered the look on Ella’s face when she spoke about being left behind. I knew that look. I had carried it too, when I was eighteen.

At eighteen, we all feel that we are standing at the edge of something much larger than ourselves. The confusion is similar. Only the world has changed.

Our second stop was horse riding at Muriwai.

The wind was strong. In the distance lay the black-sand beach of the west coast, with waves rolling in one after another. The clouds were pushed low across the sky. The light kept changing — bright one moment, dim the next.

Before we set off, Ella stood beside her horse. She did not climb on straight away. She simply reached out and placed her palm gently against the horse’s face. They stayed like that for a moment. The horse lowered its head. She said nothing. I took a photo from the side.

Katherine was a little nervous getting onto her horse. The instructor stood beside her, steadying her as the horse bent down to graze. I was awkward getting onto mine too.

Ella rode ahead of me. The four horses moved slowly in a line. She kept turning back to look at me. My horse was stubborn and kept drifting away from the track. I was not very good at controlling it.

I kept trying to adjust my rhythm, just to keep up with the others. There was a feeling I could not quite name. It was not only embarrassment. It was not only sentimentality.

Watching her ride ahead of me, I suddenly realised something. The way she connected with the horse — I had never taught her that. It was her own way.

On the way back, I thought about the words I had written in her birthday card:

Life is just like horse riding —you don’t need to control everything too hard.Stay calm, keep your balance,trust yourself, and find your own direction.May your life ahead be free, brave,and full of beautiful adventures.

I thought I had written those words for my daughter. Only later did I realise I may also have written them for myself.

The road I walked still had the footprints of those before me. There were people who had taken similar paths. There were mistakes I could learn from. There were maps, even if they were old ones.

But the place Ella is going — perhaps there is no path yet. Perhaps her generation will have to make the path while walking.

What I can give her may only be this:

I was lost once too.

I was frightened once too.

I once stood in a much larger world and did not know where I belonged.

But I still found my way.

That is all.

By the time we returned to the city, the sky had begun to darken. The girls got out of the car and waved goodbye. I watched Ella and Ally walk into the apartment building.

Those words remained in the card. Some things become lighter once they have been said.

Her eighteen and my eighteen are similar. But not the same.

She is going somewhere I cannot follow. All I can do is stay a little way behind, watching her walk in.

Downstairs, the lights were on.