One Year《周岁》

Last year, amidst an economic downturn, I lost my job.
I didn’t want to return to my old industry—craved a fresh start on a new path.
But reality proved far crueler than I had imagined.

For someone in middle age, there’s a chasm in every job listing—
an unspoken yet rigid boundary: age.
“Must be under 30.”
“Must be under 35.”
“Must be under 40.”
Again and again, quiet rejections sealed by numbers.

A friend who has lived in Europe for years told me:
abroad, many begin their careers in their thirties—
that’s when life begins, and age discrimination is not allowed.
But here in China, somewhere along the way,
age became a default rule in the job market,
silently tightening its grip on those of us
no longer young.

“One Year” was written in a rare moment of joy
during my unemployment—
sitting in a dessert shop, eating cake.

As a child, cake meant birthdays,
and birthdays meant growing up.
Now, age feels like a scar,
etched into the skin of the middle-aged,
weighing down each hopeful step toward employment.

And yet, a bite of cake
still stirs memories of birthdays—
the delight, the bright-eyed hope for tomorrow.

May I soon emerge from this shadow.
And to all those like me—
may we still find sweetness,
and live gently in the days ahead.