In this feature shared from The Jag, Issue 07, SMUS's student-led magazine, Yina Ding '27 shares a personal essay about her journey toward finding confidence, voice and belonging through art. An English translation follows the original version in Chinese.
化茧成蝶
by Yina Ding
⼀切都始于同⼀个梦。
梦⾥，我独⾃站在⼀个由⽆尽楼梯构成的迷宫中。四周是冰冷的⽯灰墙壁，空⽓⾥弥漫着压迫，寂静⽆声......每⼀级台阶都通向另⼀个转⻆，每⼀个转⻆背后⼜是新的通道，层层叠叠，像⼀个永远没有答案的谜题。头顶昏暗的灯光在破损的墙⾯上忽明忽暗，没有天空，只有阴影；没有出⼝，只有⽆尽的徘徊。那种感觉既陌⽣⼜熟悉，像被困在某种⽆法⾔说的重压⾥，挣扎，却始终找不到⽅向。
我开始把这个梦画了下来。
我⽤深⾊调和强烈的明暗对⽐，描绘那种沉重与窒息：⼀条条看似相同却通往虚⽆的路径，⼀个不断延伸却没有尽头的迷宫。那不仅是我的梦，更映射着我的内⼼世界。我画下的是刚到加拿⼤时⾃⼰的⼼境。
初到加拿⼤时，⽣活就像那个梦⼀样——仿佛⼀直在向前⾛，却总是⾛错⽅向。那时我是⼀个“⽤笑容掩盖⾃⼰英语障碍”的新⽣。每⼀句想⽤英语说出⼝的话都显得断断续续，笨拙⽽⽆⼒。我坐在教室⾥，假装⾃⼰听懂了⼀切，害怕⽼师突然提问，也害怕别⼈看穿我内⼼的迷茫与不安。 可是在来到这⾥之前，我并不是这样的⼈。 在家乡的学校⾥，我总是那个冲在最前⾯的⼈。我会主动请缨组织活动，会站在台上主持演出，会在表演和演讲中⾃信地表达⾃⼰。我习惯成为那个领头的⼈，习惯发光，也知道⾃⼰前进的⽅向。可是来到⼀个陌⽣的国家之后，语⾔和环境像⼀道⽆形的墙把我曾经的⾃信⼀点点隔开。曾经脱⼝⽽出的话语变得磕磕绊绊，曾经熟悉的舞台仿佛⼀下⼦离我很远。我努⼒适应，却像被困在迷宫⾥，找不到出⼝。 那段时间，我的成绩单上⼏乎都是 C。课堂讨论时，我不敢举⼿；⾛进⼈群时，我总想缩到最⻆落的位置。⽆论我多努⼒完成作业，我看到的似乎总是⾃⼰与别⼈之间的差距。那种⽆⼒感⼀点点堆积，压得我⼏乎喘不过⽓来。 也是在那时，我重新翻开了⾃⼰的速写本。 绘画⼀直是我表达⾃我的窗⼝。当语⾔⽆法准确说出我的感受时，线条和⾊彩替我开了⼝。
我在纸上反复描绘交错重叠的线条，就像脑海⾥缠绕不清的思绪。那段时期，我的作品⼏乎都是灰⾊、蓝⾊和⿊⾊，冷⾊调被阴影和墨迹覆盖，显得压抑⽽不安。它们映照出我当时的内⼼：渺⼩，敏感、迷失。
但我没有停留在那⾥，我开始⼀点点改变。
故事真正的转折来⾃⼀句“你做的⾮常好”，这简短的话语并不轰轰烈烈，却像⼀道光落进了我⻓期封闭的世界。我第⼀次意识到也许我并不是透明的，也许别⼈真的能看⻅我的每⼀点努⼒。 从那以后，我开始有意识地挑战⾃⼰。即使声⾳发抖，我依然逼⾃⼰在课堂上举⼿；即使表达并不完美，我也尝试在⼩组合作中主动发起讨论；我学着允许⾃⼰犯错，⽽不是因为语⾔不够熟练就胆怯地不敢开⼝。我⾄今记得第⼀次⽤英语完成演讲时，双⼿紧张得⼏乎拿不稳演讲稿。可结束后，⽼师对我说：“你真勇敢。”那⼀刻，我忽然发现即使害怕我也依然愿意向前迈出⼀步。
我的画也随之改变，⾊彩开始跃然纸上。
鲜艳的红与冷峻的蓝碰撞，橙⾊点缀在深⿊之上，像⿊暗⾥突然燃起的⽕焰。我开始尝试更⼤胆的构图、更强烈的对⽐、更复杂的空间关系。我的作品不再只是压抑和困顿，它们开始有了⼒量， 有了某种不愿屈服的⽣命⼒。
你开始在我《蜕变》这幅画中看到⼀个⼥孩正挣脱绣有敦煌纹样的丝茧。那些纹样象征着我的⽂化根源，也象征着我⽆法割舍的来处。⼥孩从茧中升起，鲜红的双翼在⿊暗中展开。她的⾝体向上挺起，双翼奋⼒拍打，像是在挣脱束缚，也像是在重新定义⾃⼰。那不是⼀个轻松的瞬间，⽽是⼀场真正的搏⽃。她不是天⽣会⻜，她是在疼痛中学会展开翅膀。 后来我明⽩，那幅画画的是我⾃⼰已经化茧成蝶。 每⼀次说不完整的句⼦，每⼀次深夜独⾃努⼒补课，每⼀次在失败和挫折中反复怀疑⾃⼰，都在改变着我。成⻓从来不是悄⽆声息、顺理成章地发⽣的，它更像是⼀场持续的攀登，明明疲惫，明明害怕，明明可以停下来接受现状，却还是选择再往上⼀步。 ⽽今天的我，已经可以站上讲台发⾔，可以在集会上表达⾃⼰的观点，也可以带领社团开展新的项⽬。虽然有时候，我依然会感到紧张，依然会在开⼝前感到胸⼝发紧，但我已经不再因为恐惧⽽停下脚步。因为我知道，真正的勇⽓不是没有恐惧，⽽是带着恐惧继续前⾏。
在我最新的画作⾥，那个⻓着红⾊翅膀的⼥孩终于⻜了起来。她脚下的楼梯并没有消失，它们依然存在，只是不再是困住她的迷宫，⽽成为她⻜翔时俯瞰的⻛景。那些曾经让我迷失、让我跌倒、让我怀疑⾃⼰的楼梯，如今都变成了塑造我的⼀部分。
⼀切都始于同⼀个梦，但它没有停留在梦⾥。 我曾经以为，成⻓意味着找到出⼝；可后来我才明⽩，真正的成⻓并不是逃离迷宫，⽽是在迷宫中学会⻜翔。因为真正的⼒量，往往不是来⾃⼀帆⻛顺，⽽是来⾃荆棘满途时依然选择展开翅膀。
Metamorphosis
by Yina Ding
Everything began with the same dream.
In the dream, I stood alone inside a maze made of endless staircases. Around me were cold concrete walls, and the air felt heavy with pressure and silence. Every staircase led to another corner, and behind every corner was yet another passageway layered upon itself like a puzzle with no answer. Dim lights flickered against cracked walls overhead. There was no sky, only shadows; no exit, only endless wandering.
The feeling was both unfamiliar and strangely familiar, as though I were trapped beneath an indescribable weight — struggling, yet never able to find direction.
I began drawing this dream.
Using dark tones and stark contrasts of light and shadow, I tried to capture that feeling of heaviness and suffocation: pathways that looked identical yet led nowhere, a labyrinth that stretched endlessly without resolution. It was more than just a dream. It reflected my inner world.
What I painted was my state of mind when I first arrived in Canada.
At that time, life felt exactly like the dream — as though I was constantly moving forward, yet always heading the wrong way. I was a new student who “hid my language barriers behind a smile.” Every sentence I tried to speak in English came out fragmented, awkward and powerless. I sat in classrooms pretending I understood everything, terrified a teacher might suddenly call on me, terrified others would see through the confusion and anxiety inside me.
But before coming here, I was not that kind of person.
Back at my school in my hometown, I was always the one leading from the front. I volunteered to organize events, hosted performances on stage and confidently expressed myself through speeches and presentations. I was used to being the person who stood out. I knew my direction and moved through life with confidence.
But arriving in a foreign country changed everything. Language and environment became invisible walls that slowly separated me from the confidence I once carried. Words that once flowed naturally became hesitant and broken. The stages that once felt familiar suddenly seemed impossibly far away. I tried hard to adapt, but I felt trapped inside a maze with no way out.
During that period, my report card was filled mostly with Cs. In classroom discussions, I was too afraid to raise my hand. Whenever I entered a crowd, I wanted to disappear into the furthest corner. No matter how hard I worked on assignments, all I could see was the distance between myself and everyone else.
The helplessness built slowly, until it became difficult to breathe.
It was during that time that I reopened my sketchbook.
Art had always been my window for self-expression. When language failed to communicate what I felt, lines and colours spoke for me. I repeatedly drew tangled, overlapping lines that mirrored the chaos in my thoughts. Nearly all my work during that period was filled with greys, blues and blacks — cold colours swallowed by shadows and ink, carrying a sense of oppression and unease.
They reflected exactly how I felt: small, sensitive and lost.
But I did not remain there.
The real turning point came from a simple sentence: “You did a very good job.”
Those words were not dramatic, yet they entered my closed-off world like a beam of light. For the first time, I realized that perhaps I was not invisible. Perhaps people really could see my effort.
From then on, I consciously began challenging myself. Even when my voice trembled, I forced myself to raise my hand in class. Even when my English was imperfect, I pushed myself to start conversations during group work. I learned to allow myself to make mistakes instead of remaining silent out of fear.
I still remember the first time I gave a speech entirely in English. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my script. But afterward, my teacher told me, “You are very brave.”
In that moment, I realized that even when I was afraid, I was still willing to take a step forward.
My paintings changed too.
Colour began returning to the page. Bright reds collided with icy blues. Orange flickered across deep black backgrounds like flames igniting in darkness. I started experimenting with bolder compositions, stronger contrasts and more complex spatial relationships.
My work was no longer only about pressure and struggle. It began to carry strength — a kind of life force unwilling to surrender.
In my painting Metamorphosis, a girl emerges from a silk cocoon embroidered with Dunhuang-inspired patterns. Those patterns symbolize my cultural roots and the part of myself I could never abandon. The girl rises from the cocoon as vivid red wings unfold in the darkness. Her body stretches upward, her wings beating fiercely, as though breaking free from restraint while redefining herself at the same time.
It is not an easy moment. It is a battle.
She was not born knowing how to fly. She learned in pain how to open her wings.
Later, I realized the painting was about me.
Every incomplete sentence, every late night spent catching up, every moment of failure and self-doubt was transforming me. Growth never happens quietly or effortlessly. It is more like an endless climb — exhausted, frightened, fully aware you could stop and accept things as they are, yet still choosing to take one more step upward.
Today, I can stand in front of a classroom and speak. I can share my ideas at assemblies. I can lead clubs and create new projects. Sometimes I still feel nervous. Sometimes my chest still tightens before I speak. But I no longer stop because of fear.
Because I now understand that true courage is not the absence of fear. It is moving forward despite it.
In my newest paintings, the girl with red wings has finally learned to fly.
The staircases beneath her have not disappeared. They still exist. But they are no longer a maze trapping her. Instead, they have become part of the landscape she looks down upon as she soars above it. The same staircases that once caused me to lose my way, to stumble and to doubt myself have now become part of what shaped me.
Everything began with the same dream, but it did not remain only a dream.
I once believed that growth meant finding the exit.
But later I understood that true growth is not escaping the maze — it is learning how to fly within it.
Because real strength rarely comes from a smooth and effortless journey. More often, it comes from choosing to spread your wings even when the path is filled with thorns.
