I was watching the new movie Materialist. Many thoughts came into my mind. I’ll try to be as honest as I can. I have a lot of shame inside me.

I’m Chinese. I quit my pilot job thirteen years ago. I worshipped white people and felt ashamed of my Chinese heritage. I thought I was unworthy—second‑class, even. I’d saved about 100 000 NZD, but spent almost all of it on my British wife, who is ten years older than me. She’s fat, ugly, and mean. I got her pregnant on our first date, then we had an abortion. I felt so guilty that I married her instead. My American Catholic friends gave me the warmth I’d never had, but after the abortion, I felt too ashamed to be with them again.

Thirteen years of hell followed. My wife humiliated me, but deep down I believed I deserved it—a slave with paperwork. So I became a stay‑at‑home father, took care of my daughter, and endured her affairs with eight men while she stole a third of her salary. My unconscious mind told me I didn’t deserve money. I worked my back to the bone at a tiny local grocery store—broke my back twice. “Chinese workers work hard,” I’d think, believing I deserved punishment and had to work twice as hard to earn my pay.

I hadn’t watched anything in Chinese for about ten years; I wanted to stay “clean.” Last month, I initiated the divorce. My body broke down—I was sick for no reason. I realized I just needed rest and rediscovered my roots: dumplings, Chinese hotpot at every meal, Chinese comedies, and movie recaps of Hollywood films. It was as if my body had been hungry for the Chinese part of me.

I have body shame too: my butt is flat, I’m 175 cm (5′9″ or 10″?), slim at 69 kg, with a receding hairline since my twenties. I look very young and I’m super fit, but the “Chinese shame” remains. I lost my career caring for my daughter, and now I have no job. After the divorce, I don’t even know what to do. A 39‑year‑old Chinese man with no career and one child—who would find me attractive? I panic.

This morning, watching the movie, I remembered why I left China and my old job: the girls I met were so materialistic—disgusting. They boxed me into a few categories: 22, pilot, salary. I was a unicorn, but I was also recovering from narcissistic parental abuse. The demons inside me were unbearable, and Chinese girls only loved my job and my money. I wanted someone who loved me. I wanted to show my naked self and still be attractive.

Now I’ve stripped down to the bare minimum and seen how far I’ll go to care for someone. How much I’ll endure to honor a wedding vow. I stayed with my wife not for myself but for my daughter’s sake. I live to break this generational curse. I want my daughter to walk through this world with her head held high, knowing she’s valuable—her birthright. She doesn’t need to achieve or perform to prove herself to anyone.

Only now do I realize I can’t teach her that with words; I have to live by that standard. I can’t fear “Daddy doesn’t have money so I’m worthless” and also tell her “Don’t love money.” Children absorb my subconscious more than my words. I can’t say “Don’t worry about your appearance” while I constantly worry about mine. She’ll see through it. She’ll grow into exactly the kind of high‑maintenance, Ivy‑League‑aspiring pretty girl I hate. If I want to change her, I need to change myself first.

All the Kiwi girls I’ve met so far are just Chinese girls in different skin, to a slightly lesser degree—jobs, money, careers, gym routines, food obsessions—perfect masks to sell themselves at a higher price. No wonder I still feel lonely. My “white worship” has improved over the last ten years. Now I know I don’t hate Chinese people—I hate how much they worship money and image.

God is fair. It’s only when I peel off my perfect mask that my true partner will walk into my life. If I only like young white girls with blond hair, blue eyes, slim bodies, and long legs, then my true love will judge me by that same standard. I can’t wait to pause the movie and spill out all these thoughts.

I’m 39, and I still believe in true love and soulmates more than ever—call me naïve. God has stripped me naked so I can meet someone who loves me and sees my value instead of the world’s standards. That requires courage: to see through herself and see through me. Who will I marry next? She who loves good and hates evil.

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