I seem to be someone with “selective attention.” The clearest example happened when a friend and I went to the office to chat with a teacher. At one point, I said that studying physics was difficult for me.
The teacher asked me the name of my physics teacher. I couldn’t answer. Then he asked what my friend’s strengths were, and I still couldn’t answer.
Then he said some things that really hurt me. At the time I felt I was being treated unfairly, so I just listened.
Looking back now, I still feel that teacher’s criticism was wrong.
I kept wondering what mechanism was behind it.
I have to admit, with some embarrassment, that there are close friends of mine—even if we studied or worked in different places and barely stay in touch—who can still talk for hours when we meet again. If someone asked me what their strengths are, I might not be able to name them immediately. And birthdays... I don’t even remember when their birthdays are. Yes, I really can forget.
If a reader has made it this far, they may think: How can you be like this? You don’t even remember your friends’ birthdays—can you still call yourself a friend?
I can’t argue with that.
There have been times when someone asked me their birthday and I couldn’t answer, so I added their birthday information to the end of their WeChat note.
When people question whether my feelings for my friends are sincere, I really want to argue back, but I don’t know where to start.
Put another way, I don’t mind at all if my friends can’t name my strengths or remember my birthday. But I would be grateful if they could keep bringing me surprises—you don’t have to do it continuously or every year—and if I could see that, even while living far apart, we were both continuing to grow.
After trying to analyze my own patterns, I realized that human memory is related to emotional intensity, value alignment, and a threshold of meaning. These three are positively correlated with how clearly something is remembered.
For example, I can’t remember a friend’s birthday, but I remember that the last time we met, she told me what she had done—trying to create on Xiaohongshu and achieving a small result. It made me think about what I could do if I started recording or creating too.
Or a friend who got separated from me in a crowd. We couldn’t reach each other, so she waited and waited until the science museum closed, and I finally found her near the bus stop.
Or the first time I met someone: I can clearly remember the shock she gave me. That shock was obviously what I saw as her so-called “strength,” and also where my attention went: before doing something, she documented all the possible action plans, or the thinking that came before the action.
The things I don’t remember may be unimportant to me, but they aren’t always unimportant. It’s just that some people, things, and events aren’t where my attention naturally concentrates first, so they are difficult for me to remember.
Put that way, someone like me may sound a little utilitarian. But people who know me may feel that I’m not a very utilitarian person at all. I don’t care about so-called social achievements; I only want to do the thing I’m doing well, without having to worry about anything else. But once other miscellaneous matters enter the picture, I want to run—say, by creating a competitive environment or setting up a system of ascending levels.
I’ve never really cared about how the external environment or other people evaluate me. Even when I hesitate and second-guess myself before putting myself out there, that hesitation comes from my own expectations and the impression I hope to make—not from the external world or other people. And I don’t need someone beside me cheering, “Go for it! You’ve got this!” before I choose to do something. It seems everything naturally reaches that point: either I feel pressure, or I feel I’m no longer suited to my current state. Even when I occasionally (very rarely) call a friend for comfort, I know inside that what my friend says can’t matter more than the decision I’ve already made. At that point I just want to see how my friend reacts to my idea, how I might adjust the direction from there, and so on.
I gradually realized that I’m someone driven strongly from within, and that drives where my attention goes.
And my attention consciously shapes who I am. In other words, what I pay attention to is the direction my life takes.
Coming back to the question: why can’t I remember my teacher’s name or name my friends’ strengths?
I was just starting high school then. There probably weren’t many physics classes in a month. Add all the other subjects, all the other classmates, and a completely unfamiliar city and environment... On top of that, I was slow to warm up and an extremely introverted person. Within my system, it made perfect sense that I wouldn’t remember, right?
As for not being able to name my friends’ strengths, even now I still feel that words like “hardworking” and “gentle” are not “strengths,” and “good at studying” isn’t either. But if we’re talking about specific things, like her beautiful handwriting or her elaborate journal spreads, those are definitely “strengths.” I just don’t directly treat those kinds of things as “strengths.” Or rather, I don’t use a label like “strengths” to define a person.
Why does being with someone mean I have to be able to describe them clearly? Why can’t the fact that “I can be friends with her” itself be evidence that I intuitively assume she has strengths—even if they aren’t strengths I can put into words?
Writing this makes me think of how some people constantly need to ask their partners for reassurance: “Do you love me?” I think, “How annoying. If I didn’t love you, why would I still be here with you?”
Yes, defining “strengths” is also a kind of external “confirmation.” But existence itself doesn’t need confirmation, does it?
Maybe this operating mechanism of mine also determines what I want to record or share.
I really like the description of Teacher Qu’s “42章经” podcast, especially the ending:
If, after listening, you can still secretly sigh:
“I really want to meet this person too.”
Or,
“Wow, that really inspired me.”
Then this podcast has done its job.
Teacher Qu’s description is very clever—my immediate reaction is simply: “Clever.”
Starting from his own experience, he explains why he creates the podcast, leads into why the guest’s presence matters, and finishes by expressing his hopes for the podcast’s future—it flows so smoothly.
To some extent, the reason I record or share certain things is that I think they might trigger an aha moment for someone. That must be the happiest moment for a recorder or creator, right? I want to feel that happiness too.
Yes, what I record or share is essentially where my attention has taken me. Things I haven’t reached yet aren’t without value; I just haven’t seen them, or haven’t found how they connect to the people, things, and events I’m focused on right now.
Sooner or later, or perhaps never... all of these are possible.
P.S. It’s also because the content work done by “42章经” and certain venture-capital organizations makes me feel that content work in technology, business, and venture capital is so interesting—and keeps me busy in a fulfillling way. Of course, I’ve also been (very/extremely) lucky to witness some “people leaving and coming back” as an onlooker. I’m curious~ (I’m leaving myself a little hole to fill; I’ll come back to it later!)