When I was a child, still tying the red scarf of allegiance around my neck and saluting every Chinese flag in sight, I carried a quiet, insistent fear: the fear of becoming a tiny screw in a monstrous machine. I refused to blend into the sameness, to be just another female body, just another obedient citizen. I would not be told who I am or who I must become. Because of one undeniable truth: a world devoid of dissent and creativity is a world stripped of its humanity.

I have always been vigilant, living in a reality where the imbalance of power seeps into every corner of our existence. This quiet oppression can be as vast as an authoritarian regime or as intimate as generational trauma passed down in whispers within a household. The urgency of confronting these imbalances keeps me awake. It is a lonely alertness.

Theater has become my sanctuary, a space where my restless mind and anxious heart find solace. In collaboration with my QTBIPOC+ community, my imagination forms into multi-sensory worlds—gentle, vivid playgrounds for radical and subversive truths. These stories often dwell in the intersections of identity, illuminating the personal amid the political. In my theatrical universe, individuality cuts through conformity, disagreement is an act of love, and even the unchangeable is met with tender resistance. Together, we create worlds where the impossible feels within reach.

James Baldwin wrote, “The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.” My love for those who live with injustice as their daily reality fuels my alertness. I make theater to share this love and this vigilance. It is an invitation for others to stay awake with me—to see, to question, to speak, to act, and to hold one another accountable.