When I was a child, I thought right and wrong were like multiple-choice questions. A was right, B was wrong. If you answered incorrectly, you just corrected it, and the teacher would only put a red cross on the paper; if you got it right, you would get a big checkmark. The world was so simple back then, even morality had a standard answer. As I grew up, I realized that life has no A or B, and there is no one standing at the podium telling us "Choose C for this question." Many times, I don't even know if this is a question at all.

When I was a child, I copied my deskmate's homework, and of course I knew it was "wrong." But that kind of wrong was clear and simple—if you got caught, you got scolded. As I grew up, I found that even "copying" had become difficult. Others seemed to walk smoothly, with clear goals and ready-made paths, but when I tried to follow them, I found I couldn't copy at all. Applying others' choices to myself always felt off somewhere. The rhythm didn't match, the abilities didn't match, even the desires in my heart didn't match... It turns out life is not a standard test paper. Each of us is different, with no uniform layout. No matter how beautifully others write their answers, they are not on the same test paper.

I began to realize that right and wrong were far less clear than when I was a child.

We often have double standards. When a friend is late, I think: "This person has such a poor sense of time." When I am late, I explain: "It was an unexpected situation (." When others fail in their choices, I think they judged poorly; when I myself slip up, I find it excusable. If right and wrong were truly absolute, why would the standards change just by switching the subject?

Sometimes, the "right" things cause me to lose out. I remember that time traveling to Hong Kong, I went to a "must-eat restaurant" according to a guide. I waited in line for almost an hour. Shops in Hong Kong are generally very small, and I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers. At that moment, I told myself: Is this right? It seems everyone likes the taste of this place. But when I finally got in, sat down, and actually ate the food, it just felt ordinary.

Yes, "right" is very standard, but it has no surprise at all.

Don't we often do this too. The "right" path, studying the "right" major, saying the "right" things, living the "right" life. But in our hearts, we have never been satisfied with these "right" things.

On the contrary, the "wrong" things sometimes bring temporary pleasure. Oversleeping the alarm clock means you can sleep an extra half hour. Knowing you should diet, you secretly order takeout late at night. The things you should do are postponed to tomorrow. When you should be rational and restrained, you act willfully just once.

Those wrongs are real, but like stolen candy, they are so sweetly real.

But the problem is, after the sweetness, we often pay a higher price, a higher cost. Regret is probably the most expensive cost. It hurts more than being scolded, and it's heavier than a single failure. Being scolded is only a momentary pain, but regret replays over and over.

"If only I had..." This phrase repeating in my mind is sharper than any accusation.

So I gradually realized that maybe the problem is not about what is absolutely right or absolutely wrong. The truly difficult part is at the moment of choice—whether I am willing to take responsibility for that choice.

Right is not necessarily comfortable; wrong does not necessarily mean destruction. The key is, after doing it, not to comfort yourself with double standards.

Give up pursuing a perfect "correct answer" and instead pursue a kind of "acceptance." Accept your own choice, accept your own judgment, accept the pain brought by the result. Not shifting blame to the environment, not blaming others, not comforting yourself with double standards—that is a thousand times better than being entangled.

Perhaps right and wrong have never been objective options; they are just the weight we are unwilling to bear.

When I was a child, I thought right meant being praised, and wrong meant being punished. Now I am more willing to believe: right is not regretting after doing it; wrong is being unwilling to admit it after making a mistake.

When we stop clinging to standard answers and learn to sign off on our own decisions, perhaps at that moment, we are truly approaching "right."

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. —— Nietzsche

When we find our own "why," right and wrong are no longer just external judgment, but the result we are willing to bear.