Hao Long Wang

When I started studying business administration in Nanjing, China, it felt like someone else’s life. My parents thought it was the only sensible choice—safe, respectable, promising. But while my classmates memorized charts and formulas, my mind drifted to chord progressions and melodies. I’m 24 now, and for the past year, I’ve finally been doing what I always wanted: composing music.

Growing up, I would stay up late fiddling with old music software, layering sounds, playing with my keyboard. My parents never took it seriously. “You don’t have the talent,” they said. “You’ll thank us later.” But I never did. Their doubt still stings.

Last spring, after another sleepless night of staring at spreadsheets, I walked into the registrar’s office and dropped out. No big drama. Just a quiet decision. Since then, I’ve poured everything into preparing for the composition entrance exam. I study theory, I write pieces, I listen obsessively. I’ve never felt so alive—or so lonely.

My parents are still cold about it. They hardly ask about my days now. I think they’re waiting for me to fail and come crawling back. But I won’t.

Last week, I was deep into a string piece when a knock came at the door. It was my neighbor from downstairs. She said my music was keeping her up. She was polite but tired. I apologized, embarrassed—but also noticed how kind her eyes were.

The next night, I composed something new—soft, minimal, almost like a lullaby—and made sure it played gently through the floor. I haven’t spoken to her since, but I hope she heard it. Maybe she even liked it.

I don’t know yet if I’ll be accepted into the conservatory. But I know now that I can’t turn away from music again. Even if no one else believes in me, I do. That has to be enough for now.