7 inspirational stories from Shanghai's live storytelling series Unravel

When Labour lost the UK general election in 2015, Ed Miliband had to stand down after one of the most unsuccessful leadership stints of all time. I cried. Then I broke up with my boyfriend.

I was working at a PR agency in Central London’s Somerset House at the time, and a group of my colleagues and I would go to this terrible gym on Embankment near Charring Cross Station after work, which basically equated to walking uphill on the treadmill for a bit and then checking Instagram every five stomach crunches or so. I usually tried to do some time on the treadmill, but I remember that this day I was feeling really low. Labour had lost the election and I was single. I decided that I couldn’t face holding my body upright, so, for the first time in my life, ever, I decided to use the gym bikes, which were in the cellar, facing the street. 

I remember I couldn’t get my phone to work properly so it was stuck on a country and western playlist that was already uploaded. About 20 minutes in, Tammy Wynette’s ‘Stand By Your Man’ – a guilty pleasure of mine as an ardent feminist – came on and I continued peddling. As the chorus started, a man walked past the window in front of me. I did a double take. It was Ed Miliband. He was walking past my gym. If you haven’t grasped the full extent of my obsession by now then let me explain it to you – it’s probably the way more normal, better-adjusted teenage girls feel about Harry Styles. When I saw him, it was like how I imagine it would feel if someone ripped out my stomach. 

I tried to carry on peddling, but something inside me just switched, and I dived off the bike, falling to the floor and quickly grabbing my stuff. I had a sweat towel round my neck and a Material Girl-style headband on. I looked across the gym. It was full. There were men everywhere making gross noises and picking up heavy things. At the top of my voice I started shoving my way through the crowd, screaming, ‘I’m so sorry… Excuse me… Out of my way!’ Big, burly men fell by the wayside. My colleague called out after me but I’d already disappeared onto the street. 

I got up to Embankment. It had taken me a couple of minutes to get out of the gym and I looked both ways, struggling to identify him. I was desperately trying to see over the heads of tourists, and just as I was about to give up, I saw what I thought was him just about to turn a corner, walking in the direction of Covent Garden, i.e. in the distance. 

I ran after him at my fastest speed. As I approached him, I started shouting, ‘Ed! Ed!!!’. It was then he turned around, looking frankly terrified of this girl in threadbare activewear chasing him down the street, waving her sweat towel to try and get his attention. ‘Erm, yes that’s me,’ he said as I stopped and promptly collapsed to gasp for air. ‘Ed. Miliband,’ I said. ‘I just want you to know that even though everyone said those things, you were still my favourite leader of all time.’

Earle Figuracion

That afternoon, all my pent up frustration through years of repression was unleashed when my mother berated my decision to live in Japan. A darkness consumed me. My entire body shook, my breath came in furious bursts, and my eyes stung with tears. Words I have fought to hold back from saying to her spilled from my lips like wildfire: ‘You are so narrow-minded.’ 

She drew back her hand, and as with countless times I knew she was preparing to strike me with it. I knew how much it would hurt, she was strong and had martial arts training, my mother; a slap from her would send me reeling. But unlike before, I felt no fear, my mind did not dictate my body to recoil and protect itself from the incoming hit. It instead drew out a voice deep within me, and made my mouth move: ‘Go ahead, why don’t you! Hurting me is what you’ve always been good at!’ I challenged her, amidst my angry sobs. Then nothing. 

There was only silence between the two of us. I saw an expression in my mother’s face, something she has never directed at me before: disbelief and resignation. 

I do not remember what happened after that encounter. We did not talk after that. She took me to the airport a few days later, to see me off my flight to Japan. As I was preparing to go inside, she broke the silence and asked me, ‘Will you be ok?’ ‘Yeah, I’ll be all right,’ I replied. And really I was. In that moment it was as if a long, ongoing storm that had been raging around the two of us had suddenly ceased. We were in the clear, or at least I felt I was. 

I never went home after the year I spent in Japan; it is true that one’s appetite for independence becomes insatiable once it has been fed. My relationship with my mother is complicated – to put it mildly. Lines were drawn and crossed that day, and I feel it was all for the best.

My mum has two wealthy, successful brothers who live in the US, and when they used to visit Beijing (where I was born and raised) it always felt like Christmas to me. As a child, they’d tell me stories of their lives and their riches that made me want to experience life in the US. 

In high school I finally had a chance to realise my dream. I studied hard, leaving myself no time for fun, but I sucked it up. I had a bigger dream. And in my senior year, it paid off: I was accepted to NYU. But because of exorbitant tuition fees, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go – thankfully, my uncles offered to pay. 

Living in Manhattan was my first time being on my own and, after I settled in, I loved it. I got blackout drunk on suspicious punch in the basement of a frat house and I gorged on fat sandwiches with fries inside. But most importantly, I was getting the liberal arts education I’d always wanted and I had a promising career path planned working as an analyst in my uncle’s firm after graduation. Everything was going perfectly until, in my excitement, I forgot to clear the porn I’d been watching on the laptop I borrowed from one of my uncles. But I had a nice talk with him over dinner, and he was very understanding and supportive (of me, not the porn). And he promised to not tell my family. 

For my first winter break I didn’t want to leave, but my uncles urged me to visit my family. While I found their insistence odd, I reluctantly agreed. And then after landing in Beijing, I was blindsided by the news that my uncles had gone bankrupt and could no longer support my education. I couldn’t believe it. But, to my surprise, despite the cost, my family offered to support me through the rest of my studies – I had never felt more loved or supported than in that moment. 

Two days later, my family came to me with a look of disappointment and sadness that I’ve never seen before. ‘You’re not going back to the US,’ they said. My heart dropped. ‘Why?’ ‘Your uncles told us about you. How you like guys, and that homosexuals in the US will either die from AIDS or hate crimes.’ I felt confused, angry, sad and betrayed – like all my strength had been knocked out of me. 

The next morning, I went to a hospital specialising in mental health. I requested a personality assessment that could supposedly tell if I’m straight or gay. The questions weren’t very sophisticated: ‘Are you romantically attracted to individuals with the same sex?’ I checked ‘No.’ I went home with an assessment stating that I’m straight and pleaded for my family’s support to continue my education. Although not convinced, they reluctantly agreed. 

A few days later, in a last ditch attempt to mend my relationship with my uncles, I sent them an email expressing my sadness about what happened and how I hoped we could keep in touch. They replied shortly after: ‘How dare you take the retirement fund from your family? You are a murderer. You don’t deserve to talk to us.’ When I got back to NYC, my uncles refused to even let me go to their house, and I had to collect my things from the post office in a box. I discovered they never went bankrupt; they just didn’t want to anything to do with me because of my sexuality. 

Things slowly returned to normal after that. I began working and started my own life, meeting all kinds of fascinating people. Sometimes I would tell my story during alcohol-fuelled ‘do your parents know?’ conversations. I would get questions like, ‘Don’t you want them to be happy for you?’ or ‘What happens if you get married?’ I would say, well, I value their happiness more than my own. But that’s the simple truth. My family is willing to lie to themselves and overlook all the things they detest about homosexuality because they love me and want the best for me. 

Maybe I will always have to hide a part of who I am, how I live and who I love, but not because I am ashamed. On the contrary, it’s because I am so proud to have a family like mine. No matter what others think. 

Beryl Chung 

Kent D Kedl

I teach middle school health, which means a whole lot of my life revolves around puberty. Talking about it, reading about it, laughing about it. It’s a tricky time for a lot of kids, as the way they grow up might not be so even. Most people tend to forget how it works – or maybe they’ve blocked it out – but some kids grow up first and then they grow out, some kids grow out and then they grow up, but eventually they even out and settle into their adult bodies. 

A few months ago, I described it to my sixth grade class like this: It’s like you’re moving house, from your kid body into your adult body, and at first – just like when you move house – you don’t feel comfortable right away. The house isn’t settled, everything is different, and you just want to go back. But then you do settle in, and you get used to your new house, and it eventually becomes your home. And then I felt bad, because I realised that I was lying to them. I don’t think I’ve ever felt at home in my own body, and I’m not sure that anyone really has 100 percent of the time. Which is strange, because out of all of the places that have felt like I was at home – in different locations, with different people, and at different times – the one constant was me. 

My journey through puberty wasn’t so smooth. I was definitely one of those kids who grew out first, and like most parents would be, mine grew a little concerned. And since it was the late ’80s, mine decided the answer was Jenny Craig, the popular diet of the time that consisted of pre-packaged food and weekly weigh-ins. Surprisingly enough, 12-year-old me wasn’t a super huge fan of freeze-dried stroganoff, so the diet worked rather quickly. Suddenly, everybody was commenting on how great I looked. It’s honestly the first time I can remember my grandmother saying she was proud of me. My body went from being a source of shame to a source of pride, but it still certainly didn’t feel like mine. It remained something for other people to worry about, talk about and fixate on. 

Well, after I hit my goal weight and started back at school, I was – not surprisingly – very, very hungry. And at school they had all of these wonderful foods (the ones I rail against now as a health teacher) that weren’t available to me on Jenny Craig. So I ate, and ate, and ate. And I snuck more food when I was at home, and because I had jacked up my metabolism after my summer of starvation, the weight all piled back on. And then some. By the time I graduated from high school, I weighed over 135kg. My body went from being just something that people talked about and were concerned about, to the main factor of my identity. I was ‘the fat girl’, and I was living in a body that nobody could see past. I definitely didn’t feel at home in there. 

It wasn’t until I moved away for college, majored in musical theatre, and met a whole slew of wonderful new friends – most of them gay men – who loved me for the other parts of my identity (my humour, my talent, my friendship) that I began to settle in. And sure enough, the weight began to drop off. I’m not saying that it happened overnight, and my 20s and 30s seemed to revolve around the all-encompassing quest to maintain my weight loss through healthy – and at times not-so-healthy – lifestyle adjustments, but I’ve done it. And while I still don’t feel quite as ‘at home’ in here as I’d like, I wouldn’t change the lessons I’ve learned or the experience for anything. 

There is so much more to a home than how it appears on the outside. And not unlike my cosy little apartment in the Former French Concession, it’s not fancy, and it’s not the place everyone would pick, but it’s comfortable, it’s kind of cute, and it’s got a lot of character.