Finding My Way

Today, I resolved to write blogs once more—or perhaps to truly begin. Three years ago, as a fledgling freshman at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, I scribbled thoughts on momoyeyu.github.io. Those fragments, though, were mere whispers of notes, not the full-throated voice of a blog. So here I stand, on this cusp of March 31, 2025, claiming the craft anew, as if for the first time.

Chapter 1: Why Start Blogging

I’m restarting this craft because I stand at a crossroads, the air thick with choices. Should I finish my master’s here, then chase a normal software engineer’s life? Or do I leap toward a PhD at a grander institution, wrestle with research, and aim for the stars as an algorithm engineer? These paths twist in different directions, each a river carving its own course. Writing blogs feels like a lantern in the fog—it sharpens my mind, guiding me toward what I truly seek.

I think they suit different types of people, but I’ve been swaying like a reed in the wind. Lately, though, a faint whisper of an answer has begun to hum within me, and I want to share its melody.

Chapter 2: The Roots of My Tangled Mind

I think my confusion stems from my research experience. Two years ago, I began working as a research assistant (RA) under the supervision of Prof. Jie. He really helped me step into the world of research. Through this experience, I also met one of my great friends from college, Weifei. He’s an amazing guy with boundless enthusiasm for research and a relentless drive to rank at the top of our college. Together, we’ve published three academic papers, one of which was accepted by the Usenix Security Symposium 2025—one of the top four conferences in the field of security. That’s a real achievement for undergraduates like us.

I’m glad I contributed to Weifei’s work, which also led to publications for me. But that alone isn’t enough to make me an outstanding researcher, especially since I was always just the second or third author. So, before the 2025 Spring Festival, I decided to lead my own research project, originally aimed at submission to InterSpeech. I came up with a relatively feasible idea and got started. But later, it became clear that publishing security-related papers at that conference would be difficult. The best alternative seemed to be IJCNN, but completing all the experiments before its deadline felt impossible. Eventually, we pivoted to UAI, which made publication even tougher. Still, with UAI being the only conference with a suitable topic at the time, I had no choice but to submit there.

Those days were a tempest. I toiled from noon to midnight, my mind a churning sea, sleep a distant shore. The experiments didn’t go as expected, and so much effort seemed wasted. Thankfully, Weifei gave me advice on how to refine them, and I managed to explore some other interesting angles. The stress was overwhelming, nearly driving me crazy. I kept telling myself, “It’s your first voyage. Stumble, and you’ll rise again.” My parents echoed the same, though their voices faded into the gale.

The Turning Point

When my mood hit rock bottom, my dad insisted I take a break and go out with them. I was so focused on work that I didn’t want to step away, but honestly, I couldn’t concentrate anymore. So, I accepted his invitation.

I still remember that afternoon. We walked along the seaside boardwalk near our home. It felt like ages since I’d last gone outside. Shenzhen, my ever-shifting hometown, had bloomed anew—a cycling track here, a mall rising there—while I’d been chasing grades and glory, blind to it all.

Suddenly, those ambitions felt like distant thunder. What stirred me instead were the tides of change—the seaside’s gleam, my parents’ silvering hair, the quiet pulse of life.

That day, a truth unfurled: greatness isn’t the only flame worth tending. I want to weave bonds with those I love, chase what sparks joy, and grow into a fuller self. Money glitters, but it’s not the sun. Prestige dazzles, but peace with my world is enough. Hard work still sings—it’s a path to rise—but not the only one. Push too hard, and I might shatter, the shards cutting deeper than before.

Then I Realized

That’s when it hit me: I’m not ready to be a great researcher. I’m not the type who thrives in research. It’s like digging for gold in the sand—rewarding only after immense effort, and it often strips away the joy of the job. I don’t enjoy constantly searching for something when its value is uncertain. Some great people achieve brilliance after failing thousands of times, but that doesn’t mean everyone is suited for that path—myself included. Research is tough because it demands innovation in the face of so much uncertainty.

I don’t mean to be rude, but I think most academic research feels meaningless, and most people can’t produce groundbreaking work without a large team and ample resources. Ours was a fine crew—Prof. Jie’s wisdom, Weifei’s spark, consultants from distant lands—but we were a small boat on a wide sea. Though they were all wonderful, I ended up tackling most problems on my own, which was a bit too much for an average undergraduate. I didn’t do badly, but I wasn’t exceptional either. Without them, I wouldn’t have published any papers by now. Still, that’s not enough for someone like me to stand out quickly in academia. And if you don’t excel fast, someone else will, and much of your hard work goes to waste. It’s not as dire as I make it sound, but it can feel that way—a kind of quiet despair.

Back then, though, I confidently saw myself as a good engineer. I can quickly learn emerging technologies and use them to create value, which excites me. Engineering also involves solving new problems, but I enjoy doing so by applying known knowledge or slightly enhancing existing skills. I dream of building something fascinating that millions can use—something with a secret simple enough for most to grasp.

Research, however, kept me from learning those technologies in a fulfilling way. I had to rush through them just to produce academic output, which wasn’t what I wanted—at least not then. Doing research itself isn’t bad, but I’m not prepared for it. So, I made a tough call: I’d let this be my last research project during my bachelor’s degree.

It’s Hard to Say Goodbye

The UAI 2025 submission deadline arrived on January 12th. After that outing with my parents, I submitted the paper as soon as our team gave it a final review. The moment I clicked “submit,” all the weight vanished—like magic. I spent the last two weeks of winter break with those I care about, making up for the month I’d lost, and it turned out to be the best holiday I’d had since starting university.

After two weeks of relaxation, guilt crept in. I started pushing myself: “You haven’t read a paper since that day. It’s not good to stay this unproductive.” Though I didn’t enjoy reading them anymore, I resumed after the 2025 spring semester began. I didn’t miss it, but letting go of research felt hard—like it had grown into me, impossible to fully shake off.

I shared my feelings with Weifei, but I don’t think he fully understood. To me, he’s always hardworking, and he encouraged me not to abandon research. Prof. Jie also said I was better at it than most undergraduates at our college and that it’d be a shame to give up so soon. He added that engineering might offer faster growth initially, but research has more long-term potential. Their words made it tougher to walk away. Though I ultimately declined their kind advice and left the research group, a sense of regret lingered.

Soon after, I joined an engineering-focused group at BUPT. The work was easier than in the research team, but I wasn’t as happy as I’d expected. I felt lost in the new environment—not challenged like before, but not excited either.

I Was Finally Going Crazy

I grew anxious: “Should I just go back to research?” I kept asking myself that, only to answer, “It’s not what you want.” But the more I thought, the more confused I became. Eventually, I wondered if I could join a more balanced group—doing research when I wanted and engineering when I didn’t. It seemed like a great chance to aim for a better university’s master’s program through their summer camp. With advice from Weifei and others, plus the allure of earning millions as an algorithm researcher, I lost it: I forced myself to declare I’d contact professors at more prestigious colleges to join their labs. If that failed, I’d go abroad rather than “waste away” at BUPT. Looking back, it’s wild—I was furious at research yet felt worthless without it, driven by others’ expectations and my growing vanity into a choice I knew wasn’t rational.

But deep down, I knew I didn’t enjoy research. I tried working with Weifei again as a research assistant, but I performed worse than ever, lacking the drive to push hard. Still, I’d committed to doing it and going abroad if I couldn’t join a strong lab. Taking back those words felt impossible. What should I do? In that depressive slump, I fled my dorm and rode a shared bike for hours, wandering and thinking. The more I thought, the more lost I became.

Chapter 3: Maybe This Is the Answer

I’m usually level-headed, so a few days later, I realized I’d gone overboard. I rang my parents, letting my tangled thoughts spill like ink across a page, and their voices steadied me—restoring my reason sharper than ever.

I’d once believed research would hoist me high, a blazing star outshining industry’s giants, carving an easier path to wealth; that staying a software engineer would dim my potential; that diving into research would rob me of time with those I cherish. But those notions frayed and fell apart. Research holds no sure promise of gold—riches don’t wait at its end; coding as a software engineer isn’t a lesser peak, perhaps even a bolder ascent; and my talents? Less a fire I kindled, more a glow borrowed from the bright spirits around me. Research might swallow hours, yes, but not every last one. I’d wrapped a simple choice in too many layers of doubt, letting it swell into a tempest of dread.

I’d burdened myself with a need to be the greatest, a weight that morphed into pride and quiet chains. For years, I’d dreamed of millions flowing in—yearning to rival my dad’s greatness, or eclipse it. But that day, replaying in my mind, whispered a truer want: peace. Research isn’t the only cup of honor to chase, nor a pit to shun. It’s no enemy—just a trade asking for skills I haven’t yet forged. Maybe I need time to shape them—months, years, or a lifetime’s stretch. In truth, it’s just a door to open or pass by, nothing more.

What matters now isn’t picking between these roads in this single, fleeting heartbeat. It’s moving toward the dawn I long for, in a rhythm that stirs my soul. I set research aside for now, diving into a scatter of development projects—spaces I’d dodged while knotted in hesitation. The choice doesn’t need to claw at me; what counts is relishing what I love and growing through it. Research isn’t the villain—I’d give it another shot with a laid-back, flexible crew that’d let me walk away if it doesn’t fit. I don’t despise it, just the strain and emptiness it sometimes drags along. A tall order, maybe, but why not? If it flops, I’ll move on. No more fog—just a clear line to what I want.

There Is No Easy Way

Lately, the work at the engineering group has thickened, like a stone tumbling downhill, piling on heft. Cracking these riddles takes sweat—sometimes a flood of it—but a subtle spark flickers in the grind. I’ve started to savor it, like I’m slotting together pieces of something real, a gear that might nudge the world forward. It wears me down, sure, but I know I can unravel these knots with enough time and grit. Not like research, which looms like chasing ghosts through a labyrinth of endless whys. Both slopes are sharp, I’ve seen, but here I stand, knowing at last which one beckons.

Choose the Path You Truly Want

When you pause at the crossroads, let your truest longing light the way. If both paths can’t unfurl together, cradle the one that sings loudest in your chest. If you’re mired, unsure of your desire, at least unearth the price you refuse to pay. Neither path is dipped in wrong. It’s only about what you hunger for—be it this quick breath, ten sunrises from now, ten moons past, or a decade’s far-off shimmer.